


Red Number Day

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Character Study, Eventual Sherlock/John - Freeform, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Romance, Slow Build, a bit of humor, lots and lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everybody has a set deathday, Sherlock Holmes is the only person who can see them.  As with most talents, it's both a blessing and a curse.  Because Death is a fixed point.  Indelible, unchangeable, inevitable.  It can't be altered, cheated or delayed.</p><p> <br/>Or can it?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SLIGHT REVISION IN CHAPTER 7</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has now been completely posted! It was more than a year in the making, and I'm excited to finally be able to share it with you.  
>  
> 
> It took a village to write this story, and my extreme gratitude goes out to each and every person. To my two betas who've been with me from the start, and who suffered many hours of my whining and angsting: prettybirdy979 and maladroitoracle. You have all my love, seriously. Also thanks to my britpicker extraordinaire, susako. The other folks who deserve thanks can be found in my end notes.  
>  
> 
> Clarification, so there's no false expectations for my readers: This is an AU based on magical realism, and there will be canon divergence, including the climax and resolution. My main intent is sort of a _what if_ scenario rather than a completely different world. How would this ability impact Sherlock and the events/people surrounding him? Also, timelines and dates will differ from canon to serve the needs of the story.

 

 

 

_Those blues I lay low, I'll make them stay low_

_They'll never trail over my head_

_I'll be a devil till I'm an angel_

_But until then hallelujah_

_Gonna dance gonna fly_

_I'll take my chance riding high_

_Before my number’s up I'm gonna fill my cup_

_I'm gonna live, live, live until I die_

 

 

_Before my number’s up I'm gonna fill my cup_

_I'm gonna live, live, live until I die_

 

 

[Frank Sinatra - Live Till I Die Lyrics ](http://www.metrolyrics.com/live-till-i-die-lyrics-frank-sinatra.html#/h)

 

****

****

 

He’s just turned eight years old when he almost drowns in their neighbour’s pool. When he wakes up in hospital, his head is pounding, his throat is raw and sore, and he feels nauseous.  He takes stock of the rest of his body, and finds everything pretty much in working order, and all the parts where they should be and working properly.

 

 

The only major change he notices is that bold, red numbers have appeared on his right wrist: ** 01-12-2012**.   They don’t wash off or disappear, and nobody else seems to be able to see them.

 

 

He knows, as certain as he knows the day of his birth, that this is the day he is going to die.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_1989_ **

 

 

Ten-year old Sherlock Holmes is being forced to endure his cousin’s swim tournament.  Bored, he hunches in the spectator seats, trying to concentrate on his chemistry textbook amidst the background hum of humanity.  He can’t focus with all the unfiltered data pounding into his brain; in disgust he slams his book shut and glares at the figures cutting through the water.  He doesn’t know why he bothers; he can’t distinguish Rodney from anybody else, so what’s the _point_?

 

 

He sighs and starts swinging his legs back and forth, his trainers making a squeaking noise as they skid along the floor.  His companion hisses in irritation, “Sherlock!  Stop it.  You’re disturbing the others.  Honestly, can’t you behave yourself in public for two minutes?”

 

“Sorry, Mummy,” he mutters as he rolls his eyes and pointedly shifts his upper body away from her.  He continues to glare at the athletes.

 

When he thinks this day has finally earned the title of “dullest day in the life of Sherlock Holmes”, a commotion in the pool grabs everyone’s attention.   A young boy’s wild thrashings cause the water around him to churn and foam.  Interest piqued, Sherlock cranes his neck to watch as several adults rush in to surround the boy and pull him out.  Sherlock abandons his book to rush down and get a closer look.   His mother reaches out to grab his arm, shouting, “Sherlock, no, stay here!”, but he evades her grasp and keeps going.

 

 

He rushes down to the poolside, elbowing bodies out of his way.  He watches, completely captivated, as the lifeguard vainly performs CPR on the young boy.  Life-saving attempts continue after the ambulance arrives, but to no avail.  The boy is pronounced dead at the scene.

 

 

***

 

 

 

Mrs Holmes drags a reluctant Sherlock out of the gathering and out into the crisp February air.  His mind spins with what he has just seen.  Mummy pats his cheek and whispers unnecessary reassurances in his ear, as if he is traumatised by the death of the young boy. 

 

Sherlock is far from traumatised.  He is _fascinated._ Something had been slightly off; if he can figure out how to return when nobody else is around and look for clues…

 

He turns his head to speak to his mother – and is brought up short.  He squints, trying to see more clearly in the gathering darkness.

 

“Mummy.. . What is that on your forehead?”

 

“What’s that, darling?”  Mummy wipes her palm across her forehead, grimacing as she checks her hand for smudges of dirt.  “What did you see?  Did I get it all?”

 

Sherlock stares at the large, glowing red digits as they shimmer and undulate in the encroaching twilight.  He cranes his neck to get a closer look, reaching up to trace his fingers along them.  They’re in the same format as the numbers on his wrist.  He snatches it back as if he has just been burned.

 

“Oh no…” he whispers, stricken.

 

“Sherlock?  What is it, love?”

 

Someone brushes against him, and he whips his head around to fix his eyes on the stranger’s forehead. 

 

A crimson date stares back at him, mocking in its glaring starkness.  He turns back to his mother just in time to see her numbers fading into nothingness.  He blinks.  They don’t reappear.

 

“Mummy, look at that man!”  The stranger frowns at him.

 

“Sherlock!” his mother chastises.  “Don’t point, it’s very rude!”

 

Agitated, Sherlock asks, ”Do you see anything strange on his forehead?”

 

“Well, of course I don’t!”  She shakes her head and gives the man an apologetic look.  “I’m so sorry, sir.  My son is very fanciful; he has a vivid imagination.  Pay him no mind.”

 

The grey-haired, stooped gentleman nods, tipping his hat with a smile.  “It’s no problem, ma’am.  I’ve had young’uns myself, I know what they’re like.”

 

Sherlock stares as the man’s numbers fade from their brilliant, bold red to pencil-thin, grey wisps, gradually disappearing.

 

Sherlock’s mother grabs his hand and pulls him in the opposite direction.

 

“Mind your manners,” she hisses.  “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again, do you hear me?”

 

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock responds softly.  His eyes frantically flicker over the forehead of every person they pass.  A continuous kaleidoscope of red slides past his vision, like a pack of cards shuffling the hearts and diamonds.  He’s reminded of something he recently read, something called… syna… synthesis… syn-something.  This must be what it’s like:  a cacophony of colour, sparkling and blaring across the forefront of his mind, an inescapable bombardment of unwanted sensation.  He squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught, but it doesn’t help.  The afterimage is burned into the back of his eyelids, numbers from different people overlapping and bleeding together into illegible nonsense. 

 

Thankfully it’s at that moment that their town car pulls up to the kerb.  The rear door opens, and he is gently nudged into the back seat.  His mother joins him, pulling the door shut and unknowingly creating a barrier between her son and the cause of his distress.

 

Sherlock slouches down, body tilted away from his mother and arms wrapped around his upper body.  His teeth worry at his bottom lip as he tries to get his trembling under control.  He stares at the back of the driver’s seat, carefully avoiding even a glance out the window.  He doesn’t want to look at another person right now, maybe not ever.

 

His eyes unconsciously flick up to the rear-view mirror in the front of the car.  The driver’s eyes meet his for a split second before they return to the road ahead, but not before Sherlock notices a distinct lack of red in the reflection.

 

Sherlock immediately straightens his posture, body uncurling upward and eyes sparkling with interest.  Oh.  A break in the pattern.   Intriguing.  What does this mean?

 

The rest of the ride passes in quiet solitude.  Alert and focussed, Sherlock sneaks glances at his mother, verifying that the red numbers haven’t re-appeared.  He surreptitiously pulls the cuff of his right sleeve down to reveal the continued presence of his own numbers.  His mind whirls at lightning speed, grasping for connections and patterns, trying to create some kind of fixed point from which he can make deductions.  He searches for a foundation on which he can build some kind of hypothesis.   Too soon to tell.  Not enough data.

 

Never theorise before you have all the evidence, Sherlock chastises himself.

 

He fidgets restlessly for the remainder of the trip home.  For fifty minutes he retreats into his mind palace, sifting and organising, looking for the tools he needs and discarding any extraneous items.  For such a young lad, the place is already hopelessly cluttered.  He tries to make good use of the time.

 

When they arrive home, Sherlock bounds out of the car.  He skips over to the other side and stands in front of the driver as he opens the door for his mother, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.  He stares intently at the man, taking in the red numbers that he now sees.

 

So.  No numbers in the reflection, but they are there now.  Sherlock files away this information and stores it for future reference.

 

Thirty seconds later, the driver’s forehead is once again blank.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

 

Sherlock spends the next few weeks gathering as much data as he possibly can on these red numbers that have so violently thrust themselves into his awareness.  At first it had been overwhelming, crowding his thoughts with blood-red images.  All he had wanted to do was escape.  But now he has an experiment to conduct, and his scientific mind couldn’t be happier.

 

The first step:  gather data.

 

It’s the middle of the school year, so aside from the members of his own household, his peers and instructors gift him with many sets of data on a daily basis.  He observes how many people present with the numbers (all of them), how many disappear after about thirty seconds (all of them), and how often they reappear at a future date in time (never).  They all immediately go into Sherlock’s mind palace, to be saved or deleted at his discretion.

 

He comes up with a preliminary hypothesis:  the numbers are death dates, like his own.  He has several supporting data points in favour of this.  One, they appeared almost immediately after he witnessed someone dying - just like _his_ numbers appeared after his own near-death experience.  Two, the numbers are red and in the same date format as his own.  Three – and this of course is the weakest link in the chain of evidence – he experienced an immediate gut reaction upon seeing the numbers on his mother’s forehead.  He had a sense of _knowing,_ the same feeling he had upon seeing the numbers on his wrist for the first time.   That is the evidence that he trusts the least.

 

Now, the only thing he needs to do is test the hypothesis.  And the only way to do that?

 

Find somebody whose date is _soon,_ and observe them on that day to determine if the numbers are indeed pre-cognitive of death.   How interesting, exciting, and definitely not boring.

 

A tiny shiver of guilty pleasure shudders down his entire body from head to toe.

 

 

***

 

 

 

He gets his chance four weeks later.  He’s with Mycroft at Oxford, his first visit since his brother left for university the previous autumn.  They are in a café, Mycroft ordering a coffee and blueberry muffin for himself, and a cherry soda and lemon éclair for his brother.  Sherlock glances at the elderly man behind him and notices that his number is that very day.  All of his senses kick into high alert.

 

He and Mycroft sit next to the window with their drinks.  Sherlock fidgets with anxiety; he won’t be able to sneak away from Mycroft and follow the man wherever he goes, so he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to count this data point.  His eyes narrow as he watches the man turn from the counter, two coffees in hand.  Before the man takes two steps, the coffees splatter to the floor.  The man clutches his left arm as he sinks to his knees.

 

Everything seems to happen in slow motion after that.  Sherlock remains seated as controlled pandemonium erupts around him.  Mycroft rises from his chair, phone already at his ear, presumably calling 999.  The old man lists to the side, sprawling inelegantly onto the floor.  It seems to take Mycroft forever to reach his side, as if he’s wading through molasses.  When he finally gets there, he drops to his knees and expertly begins CPR.  Entranced, Sherlock watches and counts each compression, each breath inhaled into the man’s mouth.  The area clears away until just Mycroft and one other bystander are working in tandem to try and keep the man alive.

 

 

 

Something that Sherlock suspects is not very likely to happen.

 

 

 

After the ambulance arrives and the sheet-draped body is removed from the scene, Sherlock nods to himself in satisfaction.

 

 

First data point supports hypothesis.  Check.

 

 

Sherlock can’t help the faint smile from forming on his face.

 

 

He still doesn’t have enough information to be able to draw the conclusion that the red numbers he sees are indeed death dates.  One validation does not a hypothesis confirm. The results need to be repeatable and reproducible in order to be valid.  He needs more data.

 

 

***

 

 

Another opportunity presents itself not long after.  Conveniently, it’s a Saturday, and Sherlock is not scheduled to be anywhere or tied down with any tedious activities.  He takes a walk down to the edge of their property, where a bucolic pond separates the Holmes’ estate from their neighbours’.  He sits down cross-legged on the grass a few feet from the water’s edge and unwraps the loaf of bread he nicked hours earlier from the kitchen.  He absently tears the slices into small chunks as he watches a group of Canada geese waddle towards him.  He throws the pieces of bread at them and grins as they hiss and posture over the offering.  Out of the corner of his eye he notices the neighbours’ groundskeeper making his way gingerly around the water, walking stick by his side.  Sherlock’s eyes widen as he approaches.

 

The red numbers on the man’s forehead are today’s date. 

 

Mr MacLeod inclines his head and squints.  “Well, bless my eyes.  If it isn’t young Master Sherlock!  It’s been months since I last saw you.  How are we this fine afternoon?  Making good use of our time, are we?”

 

Sherlock swallows.  He hadn’t been expecting to come across someone in his investigations that he is acquainted with.  He had rather been hoping… foolishly, it seems… to run into random strangers and observe with no preconceived ideas or values placed upon the person.  It’s not like he’s intimately familiar with the groundskeeper.  They’ve only met a few times, and their interaction had been fairly limited.  But it still gives him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I’m well, sir.  I’ve come to feed the geese.”  He indicates the loaf of bread in his hands.

 

MacLeod nods and smiles.  “Aye, a good use of your time, that, laddie. Sorry I can't stay and chat, but Himself is expecting me so I cannae be dawdling.  Enjoy the rest of your day, Master Sherlock!”  He touches his hand to the brim of his cap, and saunters away.

 

Sherlock watches him go, warring within himself whether or not to sneak after him and gather the data that he needs.  He frowns, giving himself a mental shake.

 

“Pull yourself together,” he whispers, forcing his legs to push himself upright and his hands to tie the bread bag closed.  “You need scientific objectivity here, not _sentiment._ No need to let a perfectly legitimate opportunity go to waste.  Buck up.”

 

He takes a deep breath, and quietly follows in the Scotsman’s wake.

 

 

***

 

 

He waits for almost two hours for MacLeod to exit his employer’s stately house.  By that time, the westerly sun is low enough to shine directly into Sherlock’s sensitive eyes.  He scowls as he shades them with his hand and tries to keep his target in sight.  He darts behind a huge, gnarled weeping willow as MacLeod makes his way towards the street.  The groundskeeper lives on a plot of land that lies directly across the way; it is his habit to come and go on foot, as often as the weather allows.

 

The road is a winding one, taking a hairpin bend a hundred yards past the tree that Sherlock crouches behind.  MacLeod fails to check to the right again before stepping out into the street (recently returned from a lengthy holiday in America, still re-acclimating to British traffic.)   He is almost half-way across when a blood-red sedan tears into view.  There is no time for Sherlock to shout a warning, and no time for MacLeod to escape as he throws his arms up in front of his face and waits for impact.

 

Sherlock watches, dumbstruck as the car ploughs into the groundskeeper’s body, tossing it up into the air like a rag doll before it comes to rest in the lane.  The sound of brakes screeching too late grates on Sherlock’s nerve endings, and he clasps both hands to his ears as he tries to block out the sound.

 

 

A young man who can’t be more than eighteen jumps out of the car, mouth agape and face flushed.  His eyes are glassy and his hands trembling as he backs away from the body, hands outstretched in front of him as if to ward off danger.

 

“No.. no, I wasn’t going that fast… he came out of _nowhere…”_

MacLeod’s employer, Mr Tyson,  bursts out of the house and runs towards the prostrate form.  He kneels down and runs expert hands down the body, checking for breathing or any other signs of life.  “Call an ambulance!” he shouts over the screaming. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t realise, until Mrs Tyson pries his hands away from his ears, that the person screaming is himself.

 

Mrs Tyson guides Sherlock quickly but gently into the house and sets him down near the kitchen table.  She keeps one hand on his shoulder as she punches in the digits 999.

 

“Police,” Sherlock croaks as he struggles to make his voice work.  “Police and ambulance both.  That driver is as drunk as a skunk.”

 

She squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder in a matronly fashion as she gives the address to the responder.  After she hangs up, she kneels down in front of Sherlock and takes his face in her hands.  “Oh, Sherlock dear.  Are you alright, love?”

 

Sherlock stares at her, eyes bright and jaw clenched.  “Of course.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“Why are you here?  Were you waiting for Mr MacLeod?”

 

Sherlock swallows.  He thinks quickly.  “I -  yes.  He – he told me he would teach me woodworking this evening.  I was right behind him when – “

 

She rubs her hands up and down Sherlock’s arms.  “You weren’t hurt yourself?” Her eyes flick over his form, taking in the lack of scratches or cuts.  “I’ll call your parents. No, sit right there, don’t get up.  I’ll get you a glass of water.”

 

After the paramedics arrive, the groundskeeper is pronounced DOA.  The initial shock fades away rather quickly.  After all, Sherlock had been expecting it.  Watching a man die doesn’t turn out to be near as upsetting as the fact that it had been a totally avoidable accident.  Sherlock glares at the driver of the car as he gives his statement to the police.  He watches as the young man fails the standard drunk-driving test and is unceremoniously shoved into the back seat of the panda.

 

Preventable.

 

The word silently slides around on Sherlock’s tongue as he mouths it to himself.   He tugs the blanket provided for him tighter around his shoulders.

 

MacLeod’s number was a harbinger of his death… as Sherlock had suspected. The question _now_ is… could anything have been done to prevent it from happening?  Is that why the numbers disappear, whereas his never fade away?  He’s honestly never thought about the possibility of his own date being changeable.  It’s _ages_ away, he might as well live forever.  Will he ever run across someone whose numbers _don’t_ disappear?  He hasn’t yet, but it’s only been a few weeks.

 

As it stands, that line of inquiry is irrelevant at best and unproductive at worst.   Sherlock needs to continue observing before he can even begin to consider possible remedies or solutions, if any actually exist.  Some of the numbers he’s seen have been far in the future; some have not.  But every single person he’s seen so far has had one.

 

_What does it mean?_

The old man at the café had died of a heart attack.  Natural causes.  Most likely unavoidable.

 

Then it hits him, hard and intense, as if a two-tonne lorry just slammed into his chest.

 

If the very-much preventable accident caused by a drunk, irresponsible, entitled teenager had never happened… if he hadn’t got into his car and decided to carelessly disregard safe speed limits by punching the gas pedal and careening around a dangerous curve… if those choices hadn’t been made, would MacLeod have escaped the day with his life?  _Had Sherlock been meant to try and do something to circumvent fate?_ He had conveniently run into MacLeod at the pond.  Perhaps if he had managed to delay the man by just a few minutes…

 

Sherlock scowls, shaking his unruly dark curls.  Of course not, he berates himself.  There’s no way he could have known the cause or manner of death.  He might possibly be clairvoyant in this one area, but he can’t see everything that’s going to happen.  The idea is ludicrous.  

 

 

But… he can’t shake that word that has gone from being stuck on his tongue to being stuck in his head.

 

_Preventable._

He remembers something he read about once, called the observer effect.  That just the act of observing has an impact on the results obtained.  Reasoning suggests that impartiality should go hand in hand with the scientific method, but it’s never possible to guarantee the complete absence of bias.

 

Sherlock doesn’t think that he can be a mere observer any longer.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

The death of Carl Powers is inextricably linked in his mind with the appearance of the red numbers, so it’s no surprise that Sherlock obsesses over the incident.  He goes over it in his mind, again and again, and digs up all the information he can on it.  He eventually comes to the conclusion that it wasn’t an accident.  It was most likely murder, but he can’t get anybody to listen to him, not even the police.  His frustration knows no bounds.  Why can’t people just _think?_   The evidence is right there in front of them, but they don’t see it like Sherlock does.  Or maybe they see, but don’t observe.  Whatever the case, it drives Sherlock to distraction.  It’s infuriating.

 

Mycroft is sympathetic and patiently listens to Sherlock’s explanations and deductions.  His brother agrees with his thought processes and the conclusion he draws, but doesn’t offer much encouragement beyond that.  He knows Sherlock is an extraordinary child and not given to childish whims, but Sherlock still stays mum on the subject of his ‘sight’, not yet willing to risk ridicule.

 

Sherlock sits cross-legged on his bed and Mycroft lies on his back on the floor, hands clasped behind his head as he thinks over what his brother has just told him.  “Your methods are sound, Sherlock,” he says, “but beyond contacting the police and telling them what you’ve deduced, there’s not much more you can do.  It’s out of your hands; the responsibility lies now with them.”

 

Sherlock scowls.  “The police are idiots,” he complains.

 

Mycroft smiles and tips his head back, looking at Sherlock from an upside-down vantage point.  “Yes, well, practically everyone is.”  The ‘Except for us’ goes unspoken, but Sherlock hears it just the same. 

 

Mycroft rolls over onto his stomach and looks at Sherlock properly.  “I _am_ very proud of you, Sherlock.  Just because there hasn’t been a result yet doesn’t mean you should stop speaking up when you see something like this happening.  One day people _will_ listen and appreciate you for the genius you are, I guarantee it.”

 

Sherlock is warmed by the praise and implicit approval, but he does his best not to let it show.  He shrugs and gives Mycroft a small smile.  “Of course they will.  When they figure out I’m never wrong, they‘ll have no choice.”

 

Mycroft laughs.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock loses himself in his mind palace for hours after Mycroft leaves.  He’s stuck on the problem of Carl Powers and how the perpetrator got away with murder, leaving the victim unavenged.  Sherlock loves puzzles, and the thrill that comes with solving them.  The fact that he’s being ignored when he knows he’s _right_ galls him to the core.  He’s not sure what to do about this.

 

 

As the afternoon wears on, his thoughts start drifting in a different direction.  He has never bought into all the magical thinking that other children indulge in.  Yet the appearance of the numbers - his own after a narrow escape from death, and the others after watching someone die - seems to unquestionably belong to a world removed from science. He’s certainly not the only person to have had those experiences, and yet he has never heard a whisper of or read anything alluding to this remarkable talent of his.  

 

 

Could it be that he’s the only one in the world with this ability? 

 

 

He itches to ask Mycroft about it, to see what he knows, but he’s just recently secured his brother’s high regard.  He doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardise that fragile approval.

 

 

So he continues to keep his ability to himself, at least for now.  Better safe than sorry.

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Sherlock hears the crunch of gravel under tyres from up in his room where he is reading about the lifecycle of mould spores.  _Finally._ He hastily closes the book and rushes down the stairs and out the door, followed by his mother’s ignored voice shouting “Sherlock Adrien Holmes, do _not_ run in the house and do not slam doors!”

 

He slams the front door in his haste right before hearing the final admonition, and cringes as the door bangs shut, shaking the frame.  He can’t worry about that now.  Father has been gone so _long,_ and Sherlock has been working on an experiment in the shed involving fruit fly larvae and hydrogen sulphide that he wants to share with him. 

 

 

Sigerson Holmes is a well-respected epidemiologist who has been researching the development of a vaccine that has recently shown promise in preventing the onset of malaria.  He’s now home after four months in Mumbai supervising the Doctors Without Borders program.  He’s been gone since the beginning of January, and Sherlock has _missed_ him. 

 

 

Sherlock absolutely adores his father, and the regard is mutual.  Whereas Mycroft is more like their mother – quiet, introspective, a love of literature finding him curled up for hours in the library near the fireplace devouring a huge leather-bound tome -  Sherlock is inquisitive and curious about all things of a scientific nature, which leads to him spending hours of his time outside doing legwork, observing and cataloguing everything he can get his hands on.  He has apparently inherited the science-minded gene from his father.

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes light on his father, and he breaks into a wide grin.  Sigerson grins and opens his arms wide. He sprints towards his father, legs pumping for all that they’re worth, eagerness dodging his very footsteps.

 

  

Sigerson wraps welcoming arms around his son’s waist, lifting him up and swinging his body around, eliciting delighted, childish shrieks.  As his father sets him down, Sherlock looks up into his twinkling green eyes… and all of his excitement and enthusiasm vanish like fine mist from a swamp as cold tendrils of fear snake their way into his heart.

 

 

The numbers   **05-06-1990** stare back at him.

 

 

That’s only a little over one year from now.

 

 

_Oh my god._

Sherlock’s fists grab onto his father’s shirt, and he buries his face in the soft cotton fabric.  He barely suppresses a sob.

 

“Sherlock?  Sherlock, my boy, are you quite alright?”  Sigerson pats his hair indulgently.  He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s curls.  “I missed you too, son.  Shall we go inside?  I think it’s just about time for dinner, isn’t it? Come now, that’s enough.”  He gently disengages Sherlock’s hands from his shirt and steps back.  He cups Sherlock chin and tilts it up so he can look into his son’s eyes.  “I hope you’ve been a good boy while I’ve been gone.”

 

Sherlock nods solemnly.  “Yes, Father.  I have.”

 

“Good.  And you’ll show me that experiment you’ve been writing me about, yes?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Sigerson smiles.  “Good.” He takes his son by the shoulders and turns him around.  “Now, march, soldier!”  He gives him a teasing slap on the bum.  Sherlock smiles despite himself.

 

A year. He has a year to figure out a way to save his father.  That should be enough time, he argues with himself.  He’ll keep his study running, keeping tabs on people with soon-to-be death dates and determine if they all are ones that can be seen as in any way preventable. 

 

 

So he becomes extra vigilant.  He stores all the numbers he sees and records them in a calendar he creates in his notebook.  There’s surprisingly few scheduled to occur in the coming year.  The only one he runs across who is not a complete stranger, and therefore the only one he can reasonably track, is his father.

 

 

 

The only one he cares about.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_1990_ **

****

 

A week before Sigerson’s death date, Sherlock starts panicking in earnest.  He checks out dozens of books from the library on the theory of reality, quantum mechanics, precognition, no matter how ludicrous, and tries to cram all that information into his mind palace before shutting himself away in his room to sift through all of the data and try to come up with some kind of solution.

 

By the time the evening before rolls around, he is physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted.  Eleven p.m. finds him passed out at his roll-top desk, face down on page 211 of _Principles of Quantum Mechanics_ by Hans Ohanian. 

 

 

He wakes with the sun, warm and bright, tickling his face and invading his closed eyelids.  He jerks his head upright, blinking the sleep from his eyes.  Terror settles in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

He runs out of his room and down the hallway towards his parents’ room, a litany of _no, no, no_ running through his mind.  He cries “Father!” as he pushes open the door… to an empty room.

 

 

He blinks, his mind momentarily blank.  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  Mycroft is home on holiday. His brother is awfully clever, the cleverest person Sherlock knows; surely he’ll be able to come up with some kind of solution, and quickly.  Perhaps he’s even caught on to Sherlock’s secret.  Sherlock clenches his fists, desperation warring with apprehension.  If only he’d been brave enough to shunt his insecurities aside earlier, maybe together they would have already solved the problem.

 

 

He quickly pads across the hallway to his brother’s room.  Uncertainty flutters in his belly as he pushes open the door, causing a creaking sound that shatters the silence.  Mycroft lifts his head from his pillow and blinks blearily at Sherlock.

 

 

“Sherlock?  What is it?  What’s the matter?”

 

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  “Mycroft, we have to do something to save Father.  Today is his death day.”

 

 

Mycroft blinks.  “What are you talking about, Sherlock?  Are you sleep-walking again?”

 

 

 

“What?  No!  Father’s death day is today!  We have to stop it from happening.  Should we call emergency services?”

 

 

Mycroft sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock.  Death day?  What is that?”

 

 

 

Sherlock’s stomach sinks in disappointment, and frustration wells up in his chest. His fingernails dig into his palms as he tries not to lose his temper.  “Father is going to die today unless we do something to stop it.  Help me stop it, Mycroft; please.”

 

 

Mycroft’s brows knit together in concern, and Sherlock _hates_ it.  His brother nods, signalling for Sherlock to continue.

 

 

Sherlock explains _everything,_ starting from Carl Powers’ death and the first appearance of the red numbers.  He grows more and more agitated as he watches the disbelief bloom on his brother’s face.  He becomes steadily more incoherent as he stumbles through his explanation, how the numbers floating across his father’s forehead was today’s date, and he can’t just stand by and let it happen, for Christ’s sake, Mycroft, don’t you see??

 

 

Mycroft stares at him.  He frowns disapprovingly.  He opens his mouth, and what comes out confirms Sherlock’s worst fears.

 

 

“Do you even realise how narcissistic that is, Sherlock?” he asks sternly. “I realise you probably feel neglected since I left, but this attention-seeking behaviour has _got_ to stop.  You’re eleven years old, for goodness’ sake, grow up!  Father isn’t here, he left earlier this morning for his hunting trip.  Now if you don’t mind, I’m on holiday and I’d like to get some more sleep.”  With that, he turns his back on his brother and resolutely closes his eyes, dismissing Sherlock in the most cruel of ways.

 

 

Sherlock, for all his possession of a superior mind, is still a child.  He stomps his foot in a pique of anger and humiliation, turns around and violently slams the door shut.  He stands paralysed in front of Mycroft’s bedroom, fear and panic threatening to undo him.  He finally shakes himself free and blindly runs down the stairs.  He rushes to the telephone and dials 999. 

 

 

When the operator picks up, his tongue threatens to trip over his words.  He manages to blurt out, “My father is going to die today.  Please come help.”  He rattles off his name and address before the operator can get a word in edgewise.

 

“Slow down, son.  Which service do you require?”

 

“I don’t know.  My dad is going to die.  Please help.”

 

“Is your dad hurt?”

 

“No.  I – I don’t know.  He’s supposed to die today.  I don’t want him to die.  Please, can’t you just help me?  Please!”  His voice is rising in hysteria and it’s all he can do to stop himself from sobbing into the phone like a hysterical child.

 

 

The operator connects him to the police and he has to go through the same thing all over again.  He tries explaining to them why his father needs their help, how he knows something bad is going to happen.  When the police arrive, Mycroft is the one to answer the door.  He turns to Sherlock, face livid with anger and embarrassment.

 

 

“What have you done, Sherlock?” he snarls.  Sherlock flinches in the face of his brother’s wrath, but he valiantly tries to maintain a steady composure.  It doesn’t do any good; the police leave, shaking their heads in irritation, and Mycroft drags him to his room.

 

 

“Mycroft!  Mycroft, wait – we need to warn Mummy!  Where’s Mummy, Mycroft?”

 

 

Mycroft’s hand tightens around Sherlock’s arm.  “Mummy is at her garden club, and is not to be bothered by the likes of you.” He thrusts Sherlock into his bedroom, none too gently, and glares at him.  “You’ll stay in here for the rest of the day, and you will not mention this to either one of our parents, is that clear?”

 

 

“But, Mycroft – “

 

 

Mycroft shuts the door in his face, twisting the deadbolt forcibly before stalking away.

 

 

Sherlock sits on his bed and places his head in his hands, body shaking and mind overwhelmed with despair.

 

 

****

 

 

The news reaches the family later that day.  Sigerson Holmes was thrown from his horse during the hunt, breaking his neck and killing him instantly.  Sherlock sits still and unresponsive during the police interview, eyes staring unseeingly at the opposite wall.  Mycroft sits with their mother, clasping her hand and refusing to glance in Sherlock’s direction the entire time.

 

 

When he’s brought down to the station, Sherlock finally talks, his voice flat and emotionless as he repeats what he had told the emergency services operator earlier.  He knows by this point that nobody is going to believe him, that it’s all just a useless waste of time.  He’s not at all surprised when he ends up being sectioned. 

 

 

 

The investigation and autopsy, of course, conclude that there are no signs of foul play; it was simply a tragic accident, nothing more.  Sherlock is officially cleared of all culpability.  The psychiatrists suspect he is delusional with some sort of attention-seeking personality disorder, but he is eventually released back into the care of his mother.

 

 

 

Still, the cloud of doubt continues to follow him wherever he goes.  Whispers of _sociopath_ start up in his presence, even though he isn’t given the official diagnosis.

 

 

But the worst part of all is that whenever Mycroft looks at him, Sherlock swears that he sees trepidation, suspicion and fear flicker across his face.

 

 

***

 

 

The first lesson he learns cuts the deepest, although it is the one he grasps the quickest.  That is that he must never tell anyone what he sees or what it means.  He must bear this burden alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that Ohanian's work wasn't published until December of 1989, but for the purposes of this story let's pretend it had been out long enough to be available in libraries in June of 1990 :)


	2. Friend

  ** _1997_**

 

 

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as the handsome ginger plops down at the lab bench across from him.  Someone else attempting to be friendly; does everyone at Cambridge resort to inane conversation as a way to ‘get to know’ somebody?  If this is how it’s going to be, he may just have to forego the entire experience.

 

 

“Hello,” the boy says pleasantly, offering his hand.  His bright blue eyes sparkle with intelligence and good humour.  “Name’s Victor Trevor.  Is this your first year?”

 

 

Sherlock stares at the extended appendage.  His gaze sweeps over the boy’s forehead, then on to the rest of him.  He’s taller than Sherlock, but stockier and more athletic.  His complexion is ruddy and sun-kissed, not at all like his own.  He’s sporting a King’s College sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, along with a wide disarming grin. 

 

 

Victor’s garb and demeanour are in stark contrast to Sherlock’s own.  Sherlock’s sleek tailored suit and crisp white long-sleeved shirt are the norm for him these days, when he tries to keep the reminder that’s constantly with him hidden away and out of sight.  The outward presentation of his wardrobe mirrors his closed-off state of mind, a tacit way of saying to anyone who tries to get too close, ‘Back off’.

 

 

 

Sherlock sniffs.  “This is a first year chemistry class.  What other year would I possibly be in?”

 

 

Victor laughs in delight as he withdraws his hand.  “You are a pill, aren’t you?  What’s your name?”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

Victor leans back and regards Sherlock.  He carelessly drapes his arm across the back of the bench, posture casual and relaxed.  “Well, this _is_ a chemistry lab, and we’ll be required to partner up.  Seems like it would be helpful if we knew what to call each other, don’t you agree?”

 

Sherlock puts as much condescension as he can into his voice as he drawls, “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Victor gives him a charming smile.  “Sherlock.  Nice to meet you.  Do you know what you’ll be reading?”

 

“Biochemistry.”

 

Victor leans forward eagerly.  “Really? I’m doing pharmacology.  My father is a pharmacist.  He wants me to do the same, but I’m more interested in research.  I’m thinking of going into neuropharmacology.  What about you?”

 

Despite himself, Sherlock is intrigued.  He responds, “I want to study genetics.  I intend to find cures to currently untreatable maladies.”  His chest puffs out.  “I’m going to save lives.”

 

Grinning, Victor declares, “Fascinating.”

 

Something in Sherlock unfurls, like a flower that’s been starved for sunlight for far too long.

 

From that point on, the two are inseparable.  They get along like a house on fire.  They are proper geniuses, both of them.  Six months into their acquaintance they rent a flat together off-campus.  They are both completely focussed on their studies with little time available for outside socialisation, so it’s the perfect living arrangement.  They can keep to themselves and not have to deal with the idiots that make up the majority of the university population.

 

Sherlock finds many things refreshing about his friend.  Chief among them is that Victor never for a moment doubts Sherlock’s brilliance.  There’s no question in his mind that Sherlock someday _will_ be able to save lives; he has every faith in his friend’s superior intellect and abilities.  Even apart from his special knowledge, Victor considers him extraordinary.

 

 

Sherlock’s never experienced anything like it before.

 

 

***

 

 

After his father’s death, Sherlock didn’t go out of his way to seek out further opportunities for saving lives.  He got into the habit of deleting any new numbers he came across in an attempt to prevent being haunted by looming tragedy.  He had decided that once he got old enough for university, he’d choose a field of study that, if he’s lucky, might allow him to help certain people from behind the scenes, as it were. Perhaps he’d be able to save people while maintaining a much-needed distance.

 

 

 

 

 

When Sherlock first met Victor, he had registered his ‘death date’ just like everyone else’s.  However, it immediately got ‘deleted’, and he didn’t think about it again for years.  What Sherlock has forgotten is that everything gets sent first to the recycle bin, and he has never bothered to empty it.  Two years after their meeting, Sherlock accidentally accesses it.

 

                                                                                                                 

 

He sits at his desk working on a criminology paper when his glance flickers over his daily planner.  He notices the due date for his paper, Monday the eighth.  His eyes unconsciously rove over the adjacent dates.  Suddenly, his memory is jogged, a number floating unbidden into his awareness.  He sucks in his breath.  He can see Victor’s numbers clearly:  **06-11-1999.**

 

 

Sherlock closes his eyes.  Two days from now.  That’s Saturday.  This is good, he thinks.  They are both planning on hanging out in the flat, studying and doing projects all day long.  Sherlock will be able to spend the entire day close by, enabling him to watch Victor and react when something starts to go wrong.  It won’t be like last time.  This time, he’ll be able to stop it from happening.

 

 

As soon as he wakes on Saturday morning, the nausea and dread take hold.  He runs into his adjoining toilet and retches, bending over the porcelain bowl as he brings up the little in his stomach, mostly water and bile.  He stumbles into the living area and immediately feels the relief swell through him as he sees Victor, already up and sprawling across the couch with his nose in a textbook.   Victor catches sight of him and gives him a small smile.  Sherlock weakly smiles back.

 

 

Victor frowns and immediately slams his book shut.  His long legs push his lanky frame into a sitting position.  “What’s wrong, Sherlock?  You’re white as a sheet.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head.  Part of him _yearns_ to tell Victor everything, but he knows that he can’t.  “I just had an unsettling dream, probably stress.  Want some tea?”

 

Victor snorts.  “Stress?  You?  Since when do you get stressed over course work?  You either get the highest grades with very little effort or you just slack off because you don’t care.  Do you think you’re coming down with something? It is flu season.”

 

Sherlock waves his hand impatiently, eager to get Victor’s focus off of himself.  “I’m fine, I’m not sick.  I’m making some tea, want some?” he offers again, and cringes.  _Stupid._ He never repeats himself, and Victor knows him well enough to notice.

 

Victor gives him a studied look.  He shakes his head.  “Nah, I just had breakfast half an hour ago.  Thanks, though.”  His gaze returns to his book as he softly says, “There’s some antacid in my bedroom, top drawer of my bedside table.”

 

Sherlock smiles at both his friend’s perspicacity and his utter cluelessness.  His smile fades when he remembers that this friend – the closest he’s ever had – is in danger of dying today.

 

The day drags.  Sherlock has never felt so much tension and anxiety in his gut before.  He can’t concentrate on anything; his attention is wholly taken up with observing Victor and keeping an eye out for any sign that anything is amiss.  The more time that passes, the more tense he becomes.  He’s sure that Victor senses it, but he doesn’t make any further indications of such.  Victor seems relaxed and content.  He isn’t exhibiting any signs of distress or illness.  That doesn’t mean anything, though.  The man at the café didn’t either, up until the point he did and it was too late.

 

It’s around four o’clock when Victor reaches for his coat and scarf.  “I’m running to the shops to pick up some crisps.  Want anything?”

 

Panic threatens to claw its way up Sherlock’s throat.  He jumps up from his place on the sofa, declaring, “I’ll accompany you.  I need some fresh air after being cooped up in here all day.  Plus I have a craving for some chocolate.”  He fakes a nonchalant yawn, stretching his arms above his head.  He barely manages to clamp down his burgeoning anxiety and the churning in the pit of his stomach.

 

Victor nods, and they both walk out the door into the crisp autumn air.

 

The walk to and from the shop is uneventful.  There’s no accident, no mugging gone bad, no meteorite falling from the sky.  The two make it back to the flat safely, and Sherlock settles in to keep watch for what remains of the day.

 

As the clock ticks ever closer to midnight, Sherlock feels the muscles in his shoulders start to relax.  Perhaps he misremembered Victor’s death date.  It wouldn’t be the first time his memory palace has failed to retrieve the correct information.  He hopes that’s the case this time.

 

Nine o’clock rolls around.  They order dinner from a new Chinese place that keeps later hours than their regular one.  Sherlock has Szechuan chicken, while Victor orders his standard beef broccoli.  Not five minutes into their meal, it’s clear that something is very wrong.

 

One minute, they are sitting at the table pleasantly chatting and eating; the next, Victor’s hands scrabble at his throat as he struggles to take a breath.  At first Sherlock thinks he is choking, and moves to assume the position for the Heimlich manoeuvre.  But Victor shakes his head and manages to wheeze out, “Epi.  Need… EpiPen.”

 

Sherlock runs into the bathroom and wrenches open the medicine cabinet.  His hands shake as he grabs the kit and rushes back to Victor’s side.  He clumsily helps his friend pull his jeans down to expose his thigh; he retrieves the injector and plunges it in.  He gently guides Victor to a supine position and stays with him as his breathing gradually returns to normal.  After several minutes, Sherlock finds his voice.

 

“Peanut sauce?”

 

Victor nods weakly.  “Must have been.  I didn’t even think to check the dish description, I just ordered it out of habit.  They must make it differently than The Peking Duck.  Careless of me.”  He smiles affectionately at his friend.  “Thank you, Sherlock.  You just saved me from my own stupidity.”

 

 

“Nonsense.  You couldn’t have known.”  Elation swells in Sherlock’s chest.  He’s done it; he’s actually _done_ it.  He’s stopped someone from dying.  It _is_ possible.  And he can _keep_ doing it.

 

 

Sherlock starts as he remembers he’s forgetting a crucial step.  He pull outs his mobile and calls for an ambulance.  Victor attempts to wave it away.

 

 

 

“No. No, I don’t want the hassle.  I feel fine now, everything’s fine.”

 

 

Sherlock gives him a stern look as he presses the phone to his ear.  “You know the procedure, Vic.  You need to be looked over in case of complications.”  He gives his friend’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  “Don’t worry, I’ll meet you at hospital.  I should be there before they’re finished with you.”

 

 

As he expected, once the ambulance arrives the paramedics refuse to let Sherlock ride with Victor to the hospital, so he hails a cab soon after they leave.  He leans back into the cushions, weak with relief and exhaustion.  Victor is in the best possible hands, those of trained medical professionals.  The day is nearly spent, which means Victor’s death day is almost over.  Sherlock closes his eyes and allows himself to finally _relax._

 

 

 

Sherlock arrives at the hospital just before eleven o’clock.  He’s met by a dour-faced doctor who takes him aside and makes him sit down.  A chill runs down his spine as he takes in the grim countenance and the lips pressed in a thin line.  His heart sinks as the inevitable _knowing_ settles in his bones. 

 

Of course.  There could be no other outcome.  He should know by now that no striving or attempt to circumvent fate is going to succeed.

 

 

His best friend – his _only_ friend -is dead.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Irony is a cruel mistress.  The autopsy determines that Victor’s death was the result of a stroke caused by a spike in blood pressure, a side effect of the adrenaline taken to alleviate his allergic reaction.

 

 

 

***

 

 

The second lesson he learns takes a bit longer for him to accept, although he does get there eventually.  The red dates are set in stone.  There is no changing them, no matter what Sherlock does or how hard he tries.  It’s as if they are already etched into each person’s headstone.  Indelible, irrefutable, unchangeable.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

The day after Victor’s death, Sherlock gets an unwelcome visitor.  Mycroft stands in the doorway to his flat, an unreadable expression fixed on his face as his eyes flick over Sherlock from head to toe, as if he’s trying to pull dirty secrets and confessions out of his innermost soul just by reading his body language.  Sherlock scowls as he turns away.

 

“Go away, Mycroft.”

 

His brother  ignores him and steps inside, shutting the door behind him.  “Sherlock, I realise how hard this must be for you.  I only wanted to see how you were and to offer my condolences….”

 

“Don’t”.

 

Sherlock stands with his back to his brother, both fists clenched at his sides.  “Don’t presume to tell me that you have any care as to my wellbeing.  We both know that would be a lie.  I’ve always preferred honesty.  So I will be the one to give it.  No, I didn’t knowingly give Victor something that would cause an allergic reaction just so I could attempt to save him and be the hero.  I’m not the psychopath you seem to believe I am.”

 

Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft properly, and gives a smirk of satisfaction when his brother flinches from what can only be discomfort at having been caught out.

 

 

“You’ve done your duty by checking up on me; you can report back to the psychiatrists now.  See yourself out.  Goodbye, Mycroft.”  He turns back to the sofa, throws himself down on it and stabs the remote at the television.  He pointedly ignores Mycroft until he goes away.

 

 

***

 

 

After softly shutting Sherlock’s door, Mycroft stands next to it with his hand against the wood, head bowed.  The noise from the television filters through, but it’s not loud enough to mute the sounds of his brother’s muffled sobs.

 

Mycroft closes his eyes for a split second before turning and walking away.  He doesn’t speak to his brother again face to face for several years.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

One month later, Sherlock drops out of university.  Two months after that, he finds something that deadens his awareness of the knowledge that haunts his every waking hour.  An addiction is born.  He doesn’t worry about his doses or how much he injects.  He might overdose; his heart might even stop.  But he won’t die.  Not yet.

 

 

Sherlock begins the process of building walls around himself as protection from further pain and heartbreak.  No more friends. No more flatmates. No more acquaintances/colleagues. He's alone, and that's what protects him.

 

 

He vows to never be caught off-guard again.  His last coping mechanism backfired in spectacular fashion, so he alters his strategy.  He goes to great pains to make sure he is always aware of what date it is, and he stops deleting death dates.  Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.  

 

He gives up on his dream of going into medical research.  It seems pointless to continue buying into the delusion that he can make a difference.  People can’t be saved; it’s a futile quest, and nothing but heartbreak can come of it.

 

 

Sherlock eventually settles on a career of his own creation.  Most of it involves working with corpses, and that suits him just fine.  Perhaps if, in the beginning, he had focussed all his energy on Carl Powers instead of wasting his time on the red numbers, a murder case would have been cracked a long time ago.  He might have actually _accomplished_ something. 

 

 

So instead of spending his time trying to save living people, he directs his energy into obtaining justice for those who have already died.  He figures it’s a much nobler calling, with a higher chance of actually making a difference.

 

 

 

The living tend to be annoying and distracting anyway; they’re best avoided.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_2004_ **

 

 

Sherlock is fifteen days into a thirty-day stint in rehab when Mycroft arrives to visit him unannounced. This is a very unusual event. No one can receive visitors in rehab unless it's either the appointed visiting day, or if arrangements are made at least twenty-four hours in advance. Sherlock would be surprised if he wasn't very aware of what day it is. 

He isn't sure how he should act. There had been no indication that anything had been wrong; her death, to anyone else, would seem unexpected and sudden. Should he act surprised? Should he pretend that he is shocked and overwhelmed, when in reality he has been preparing himself for this day for fifteen years? He actually is sad, and he does feel grief, but he certainly doesn't feel what he would have felt if he had been an ordinary person.

 

Sherlock greets his brother with all of his customary indifference and disdain. Acting as he would normally act is a good place to start, so he dredges up all the usual resentments and brings them to the fore.

 

 

"What is it, Mycroft? It must be something momentous to break three years of radio silence. Are you sure our borders are safe while you waste time here on what is sure to be a fruitless visit?"

 

 

He raises his eyes to Mycroft's and is momentarily unsettled when he sees the genuine sorrow in them.

 

 

"Sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft says softly. Sherlock huffs, but does what he’s told, pulling out a chair next to one of the tables.  Mycroft seats himself across from him, gaze never leaving his own.  Sherlock’s eyes widen when his brother makes an abortive attempt to reach for his hands.  He reflexively draws back, folding his arms across his chest.  A pinched, pained expression crosses Mycroft face before he stiffly pulls his hand back.  He clears his throat.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but Mummy has passed away. Her car was broadsided by a taxi this morning on her way to visit Aunt Violet. The road was icy, and the cabbie lost control of his vehicle at a red light. They tell me she died instantly, so she didn't suffer. I've already talked to your counsellors, and they have agreed to release you for a week into my care. We can leave as soon as you've packed."

 

 

Sherlock feels genuine sadness at this news, and he hopes that sincerity bleeds out a bit in his reaction. It's at least almost always a surprise as to _how_ it happens, even if the time may not be. He is thankful that it wasn't painful, or a long drawn-out disease. It had been an ordinary accident, and a quick and painless one at that. One had to be grateful for small favours.

 

He gives his brother a small nod. "Thank you. I'll only be five minutes, I'll meet you out at reception."

 

Mycroft smiles sadly. "Alright. I'll settle you in at my house."

 

"Good," Sherlock says, numbness already threatening to take hold.  "I'll be right out."

 

As soon as he’s back in his room, he snarls in frustration and vents his anger on the wall with his fist.  There was a reason he had started using again a month ago.  He had only meant to distract himself from the impending loss he knew was coming.  By this time he knows his limits, how much he can take and for how long without posing a danger to himself.  All he had wanted to do was _forget_ the fact that he was about to become an orphan.  But then Mycroft had to stick his slimy nose in where it wasn’t wanted and threaten to turn him into the police if he didn’t agree to a drug treatment program.  And now he has been clean and sober for an entire fortnight, completely aware of what was looming in the immediate future -  the exact _opposite_ of the condition that he needed to be in in order to _cope._

 

Bloody Mycroft and his interference and need to control every aspect of Sherlock’s life.  _Damn him._

 

 

***

 

 

The funeral is large but tasteful, as these things go.  It is held in Sussex, which is where Mummy was residing at the time.  There are far too many attendants for Sherlock's liking; too many cousins, aunts and uncles that he hasn't seen for many years and never cares to again.  Most are grief-stricken and in shock.  Margery Avery-Holmes had been the picture of perfect health at sixty years of age, youthful and active.  Nobody had expected this (except for Sherlock) and as a result, the atmosphere is thick with anguished mourning.

 

 

Mycroft is expected to give the eulogy, and he gives a flawless one.  In fact, it's so flawless that people are shifting uncomfortably throughout.  Mycroft is the picture of perfect poise, dry-eyed and emotionless.  Sherlock hears Cousin Evan lean into Aunt Gerty and whisper in her ear "He's made of ice, don't you think?  No tears at his own mother's funeral?"  Sherlock makes a note of it, but doesn't waste much mental energy on it.  Mycroft has always been distant, more in control of his emotions than most people.  And in his particular line of work, distance is encouraged, even required.

 

 

 

Sherlock's reaction is noted upon, and none too quietly.  He knows some people give him the benefit of the doubt, claiming that he's still in shock from such an unexpected tragedy.  He's probably just numb, Cousin Clarise tries to explain.  She always did have somewhat of a crush on him while they were growing up.

 

 

But as he circulates around the room, most of the things he hears are more unkind.  He hears Uncle Charlie say "He was diagnosed as a sociopath, wasn’t he? (Wrong!)  I doubt he's capable of feeling anything."  Quietly whispered hisses of "Freak" and "Robot" follow him as he remains tear-free and seemingly unaffected.

 

 

 

 

At the gravesite, Sherlock stands apart from everyone else, hands fisted in his coat pockets as he observes.  Apart, just like always.  He can't fake an agony that he doesn't feel.  He is sad, yes.  And he is grieving, in his own way.  But he isn't capable of feeling the sharp sting of overwhelming loss anymore.  Not when he has been prepared for this day for over a decade.  Not when he's been carefully armouring himself against this sort of thing ever since Victor died.  His disconnection and isolation have never been as cutting to him as they are now.  

 

When everybody else has left except for him and Mycroft, Sherlock makes his way to the open grave.  Mycroft has moved away to give him some privacy.  He reaches down inside the private part of himself where he locks everything away, and finally allows himself to fully feel the loss of his mother.  He allows himself to think about the fact that he will never see her again, never smell the odour of her shampoo that always reminded him of pine needles, never feel her strong arms around him.   A few tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he throws a rose unto the coffin.  He has armoured himself well, though.  The numbness has taken almost complete control, and any emotion seems flat and colourless.

 

 

Sometimes he wonders if it would be better to feel the cutting pain and grief, rather than this no-man’s land of indifference and repressed sentiment.  He would give anything to just feel _alive_ again, even if it meant the uncertainty of his own fate.  Even the rush of heroin through his veins has lost its appeal; the thrill of dancing on the razor’s edge of mortality loses its sharpness when the day of one’s death is a known quantity.  Life is utterly predictable, dull, _boring._

Most people want to stave off death for as long as they can.  Sometimes Sherlock believes the end can’t come soon enough.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**_January 29, 2011_ **

 

 

 

Sherlock looks up as John Watson limps unassumingly into the lab.  He dismisses him with a glance and asks Mike if he can borrow his phone.  He looks up in surprise when the stranger offers his own.  His eyes involuntarily sweep over the man’s forehead, noting the numbers and filing them away in his mind palace.  Well, that’s good, Sherlock thinks as he makes his way over to the man.  He won’t have to worry about losing a flatmate before his usefulness has expired.  He plans on getting a place of his own before the year is out, as soon as he can scrounge up enough money and convince someone to rent to him despite his history of evictions.  He’s really not cut out for flat sharing anyway; he swore he never would again – but needs must.  His desperate need to get out from under the suffocating thumb of Mycroft’s ‘concern’ overrides all others.

 

 

One can only hope that this Dr Watson doesn’t turn out to be unbearably dull or inconveniently intrusive.

 

 


	3. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother… or the _breaking_ of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great Game dialogue taken from Ariane_Devere's transcript, [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html)

 

Sherlock stares at the cabbie as he shuts the door to 221B behind him.  He has just figured out who the killer is, and his body thrums with excitement as he sees that the cabbie’s death date is that very day.  No one else will die because of the man; Sherlock needn’t feel guilty about indulging his curiosity.  Not that he would anyway.

 

So off he goes to engage a serial killer, risking his life to prove he’s clever.  Except he’s the only one who knows he’s not actually risking his life, not when he’s not slated to die for a while yet.

 

This is decidedly _not_ boring.

 

 

His heart twists – he actually _feels_ it – when Hope reveals that both he and Sherlock will be taking a pill.  One that is poisoned, one that is not.  He’s never known _how_ someone will die before the fact; this adds an entirely new dimension to things.  Sherlock will correctly deduce which pill to choose (obviously), and Hope will die of poisoning while Sherlock swallows the placebo.  It’s all so neat, so elegant. 

 

 

But in his own mind, he still needsto logically solve the puzzle in order to allow that scenario to unfold.  Of course _he_ knows how it’s all going to end, but proving it is what he lives for.  What good is being clever, if he can’t _prove_ it?  Just _knowing_ something has never been good enough for him; it feels like cheating, somehow.  Moreover, that’s just _boring._ He _needs_ a puzzle to solve; it’s what he lives for.  

 

 

Ah, but then… then Sherlock deduces that Jeff Hope has, in fact, been dying for the past three years.  The aneurysm may not be the reason he dies within the next few hours but it certainly muddies the waters a bit.  How delightfully unpredictable.

 

 

And the gun… ah yes, the gun.  Sherlock grins when the cabbie points it at him and threatens to shoot.  If only the average serial killer mind had access to the information Sherlock has; perhaps murders would become more interesting.

 

“I’ll take the gun, please.”

 

As he gets up to leave, the cabbie issues a final plea to play.  The fact that it’s not guaranteed that the pill is what will kill him makes this so much more than interesting; it’s _fascinating._   His body floods with adrenalin and anticipation as the pieces all slot together, leading to the inevitable denouement. 

 

Sherlock chooses a pill and prepares to take it.  As he and the cabbie get ready to take their medicine, he becomes more and more confident he’s chosen correctly.  After all, there is no doubt that Sherlock is going to live.

 

But then, a little niggling thought… _Why then doesn’t the cabbie hesitate to take the pill?_

 

A gunshot interrupts the carefully orchestrated tableau, and Sherlock’s exhilaration shatters like the window.

 

Now Sherlock is frantic with the need to know.  The cabbie is dying, but not of a poisoned pill.  Did he choose the correct one?  Was he right, in the end?

 

 

He never does find out, and he’s more irritated than rattled.  But he does gain the name of the cabbie’s sponsor.  Another riddle for his mind to puzzle over, tiding him over for the time being.

 

 

Then there is the enigma that is John Watson.  The man had slipped his mind during all the excitement, but he’s there now.  He’s just earned himself a prominent place in Sherlock’s palace.  What kind of man shoots someone dead to save the life of a person he’s known for less than 36 hours?

 

The kind of man who just might prove capable of holding the attention of Sherlock Holmes for an indefinite length of time.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock surreptitiously observes John as they eat their Chinese meal.  The atmosphere is hushed and unhurried, as the time is inching towards midnight and there are only three other customers in The Golden Panda.  They’ve been seated in a corner booth far from both the entrance and the kitchen, where it’s intimate and quiet.  They are both still charged up with adrenalin and excitement; they’ll probably be up for hours yet.  Sherlock is used to it, of course; he’s a nocturnal creature by nature, due to his solitude.  He doesn’t know what John Watson’s routine consists of, but he’s sure it doesn’t include running after serial killers and shooting them dead.  He’s also sure it doesn’t include leaving his cane behind.

 

 

Sherlock smiles.

 

 

He ponders the events of tonight, about the nature of _fate_ and _destiny._ It’s not the first time he’s thought of such things, of course, but what just happened has put a different spin on the direction of his thoughts.  Probably because he’s never before skated quite so closely to the edges of his own mortality.  And it was personal, this time; someone had actually set out to end his life; _his,_ specifically.  He needs to understand what that means.

 

 

Is he alive due to the improbable confluence of events that led to a crippled ex-army doctor with a penchant for danger meeting him, agreeing to a flat share, and then saving his life by shooting a killer dead before he could swallow the fatal poison?  Or would he have lived anyway because he had chosen the correct pill?  Had his fate hinged on a specific event happening?  Or was survival guaranteed regardless of which scenario unfolded?  Intriguing questions, all, and no way to test for the answers.

 

 

It’s enough to drive a detective round the bend.  In a good way.

 

 

John looks at him with a warm, fond expression, and Sherlock’s heart lurches.  He’s reminded of the only other flatmate he’s ever had, gone for over a decade now.  He should shut down these feelings _right now,_ nip them in the bud, as it were.  But he can’t bring himself to do that.  Because he had forgotten how good these feelings are, how they warm him all the way down to his toes.  He’s become very good at maintaining the walls he’s built around himself, that protective fortress, but now that he’s let that little sliver of affection slip through the cracks, it’s difficult to seal them back up again.

 

 

Well, it can’t hurt to let this little bit in.  He savours it all the more for the fact that it’s finite, and therefore doesn’t overwhelm him.

 

 

“So,” John says as he takes a bite of his Mongolian Beef, “am I going to have to make a habit of this?  Keeping an eye on you?”  He grins, and it’s the most charming thing Sherlock has seen in many a year.

 

Sherlock grins back as he steals a Crab Rangoon off of John’s plate.  “Oi!  Order your own meal if you’re hungry!” John says without heat, making no attempt to shield the rest of his food.  Sherlock responds by dipping the appetiser in John’s sauce.

 

 

Maybe this flat share business won’t be as tedious as he had initially anticipated.

 

 

***

 

 

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten –_ Sherlock is calm, cool and collected as he counts the compressions in his head.  He knows how this ends, there’s no need to panic.

 

 

 

_Breath 1, breath 2_ … John places his pocket mask over her mouth and gives her life-saving oxygen.  Her heart will beat, her lungs will inflate, a stay in hospital is unavoidable, but she will live.

 

 

 

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ten… keep the beat, keep the rhythm, Stayin’ Alive…_ come on, Martha, we both know this isn’t over yet, that _you’re_ not over yet, you’re not fooling anybody, you’re worrying John, _stop this now._

_Breath 1, breath 2_ … Time for John to spell me.  Is it just me, or should the ambulance have been here _ages_ ago…

 

 

 

In reality, the ambulance arrives exactly five point seven minutes after Mrs Hudson’s collapse. Not exactly ages, but also not instantaneously, which Sherlock would have expected with Mycroft’s hidden surveillance systems in place. Sherlock and John stand aside as the paramedics make their way into the flat and rush to prepare the defibrillator. Their shoulders are rigid with tension and the atmosphere in the flat is heavy with expectation and dread. Sherlock knows John is tense because he’s waiting to see if their efforts have been in vain. Sherlock’s disquiet is related, but not quite the same. Every other time he’s tried to save somebody, it had been _in spite of_ the person’s death date, and it had always ended with failure. This is the first time he has made the effort for somebody whose numbers signified survival, and he’s anxious to validate the fact that Mrs Hudson will indeed live.

 

 

 

After what seems like an eternity, the monitor lights up with regular spiking green lines.  Mrs Hudson gasps a deep, shuddering breath, and Sherlock and John sag against each other in relief.  The paramedics quickly wheel her out of the flat and into the ambulance, speeding away into the night.

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s and hold for a few seconds.  He nods at his flatmate of four weeks and gives him the tiniest of smiles.  They made a good team, working in concert to save the life of their landlady/housekeeper.  John’s already proven invaluable during the pink lady case; maybe he could join Sherlock on other cases as well.  He’s always worked alone before, but, well… he’d be a fool to turn down someone who actually aids him in his work.

 

 

As they ready themselves to make their way to the hospital Sherlock feels the faint stirrings of his world re-arranging itself.  He knows it’s significant, but he’s not sure why.  The tiny bit of John that he has allowed in has gained a larger foothold than he had intended.  He feels powerless to keep hold of any control that he once thought he had.

 

 

 

_Dr Watson, you are either a marvel… or a curse._

 

 

***

 

 

 

Soo-Lin is going to die tonight.  Nothing will stop it, no matter what the two of them do.

 

 

Sherlock finds himself acting unexpectedly tender towards the young girl as she tells them her life story.  It’s so wrong… tragic… for her to have survived so much, to have come so far, only to meet her end when freedom had seemed so close.  She had been so clever, had hidden so well, and in the end it will be for naught.

 

 

Sherlock can’t help but admire her strength and resilience.  Uncharacteristic empathy wells up in his chest, and he can’t quite pinpoint its source.  He hasn’t felt this sort of emotion for many years now, and he’s not sure he likes it.  Is this one of the effects of his budding friendship with John?  He’s only known the man for a couple of months, and yet there’s some sort of bond forming there, despite his lacklustre efforts to fight it.  Perhaps he’s absorbed some of John’s ability not only to interact with people, but to connect with them as well.

 

 

Sherlock’s thoughts scatter like autumn leaves when the lights suddenly go out.  Soo-Lin whispers “He is here.  He has found me,” and the utter resignation and despair in her voice makes something inside Sherlock snap.  He knows it’s futile, it’s absolutely pointless, but he has to _try,_ damn it.  He can’t just let her be a sitting duck, not like this. What will John think if he just sits here and does nothing, knowing the situation is hopeless?  _John_ doesn’t know it’s hopeless, and that’s what matters.

 

.

So he jumps up and runs out the door, determined to try and lead The Spider away from her.  John is here, John can protect her while he acts as a decoy.

 

 

When Sherlock hears the gunshot – just the one – coming from an area where he is _not_ , his heart stutters to a stop.  He knows that it’s over.  John – idiotic, naïve, _stupidly loyal_ John – must have run off trying to protect Sherlock, leaving Soo-Lin alone and vulnerable.  Leaving her to die while he hares off after a man who doesn’t even need protecting.  It’s enough to make him physically ill.

 

 

He holds it together long enough to solve the case, in spectacularly heroic fashion, if he does say so himself.  John’s safe, Sarah is safe (as if there were any doubt), he’s 20,000 pounds richer.   Things are as good as they are going to get.

 

 

The dust settles, and Sherlock slowly starts to rebuild the walls that have recently started to crumble in the presence of his flatmate.  The next case accepted – the one in Minsk – he excludes John from entirely.  Whenever John is present in the flat and tries to engage him, Sherlock feigns an important experiment or shuts himself away in his room with his violin or his books.  He doesn’t need John’s approval or acceptance; he doesn’t need _anything_ from John.  He doesn’t need anything from anybody.  It’s time to relearn the lesson.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_“Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die.”_

_“What for? This hospital’s full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?”_

 

 

 

 ***

 

 

 

 

Jim barely registers on Sherlock’s radar when he walks into the lab.  He doesn’t even rate a grunt, let alone a glance, but when Sherlock lifts his head from his microscope to truly _look_ at him, he clamps down on his feeling of surprise.  A small thrill of – _something_ shivers up his spine.  He gives the man a small frown.

 

 

 

The numbers radiating off Molly’s new boyfriend read   **01-12-2012** **.** The same date…. Huh.  Interesting.

 

 

Although coincidences are rare, they do happen, so Sherlock shrugs and quickly focusses his attention back on the delightfully interesting case in front of him.  It’s the first mistake he makes regarding Jim from IT, but it certainly isn’t the last.

 

 

 ***

 

 

 

When the old woman won’t follow his instructions and gets herself killed, Sherlock sits paralysed, jaws clenched.  Without the visual aid of the numbers, Sherlock is as clueless as anybody else as to the likelihood of saving someone.  That’s part of the reason he has been so dazzled by these puzzles _–_ the uncertainty of the outcomes has provided a challenge he so rarely experiences.  His failure here, along with the humiliation of losing to someone who can only be Moriarty, grates on his nerves and twists his stomach into knots.  This isn’t his fault, the blame lies entirely on her.  She was obviously going to die anyway, but John and Lestrade don’t know that; they interpret his reaction as guilt for failing to save her.  It’s irritating in the extreme to constantly have one’s behaviour misinterpreted by such tiny minds.

 

 

His mood doesn’t improve once he and John return to Baker Street.  John continues to expect things from Sherlock that Sherlock can’t give, and the frustration boils over.

 

“There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual _human_ lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at all?”

 

”Will caring about them help save them?”

 

”Nope.”

 

”Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.”

 

After that, John no longer tries to shame him into conforming to his own standards of decency.  Sherlock considers it a win.

 

 

 

 ***

 

 

 

 

The knowledge that John will not die today does nothing to relieve the sense of horror he feels at seeing his friend wrapped in Semtex.  It’s an instinctive reaction, not a logical one, and he hates every bit of it.  Hates these feelings that have been sneaking up on him with alarming regularity ever since John opened his mouth and exclaimed “Amazing!”  They turn Sherlock into an ordinary creature who responds to external stimuli rather than an extraordinary man influenced only by the inner workings of his mind.  He wants it to stop.

 

 

Then Jim from IT steps out and introduces himself as Jim Moriarty.  Sherlock’s brain actually shuts down for 1.8 seconds.  When it finally reboots itself, the memory of Jim’s death date leads him with dizzying speed to a sobering conclusion. 

 

 

The two of them will almost certainly die while locked in lethal combat with each other.  Any other possibility is too improbable to even contemplate.  Given the extent of Moriarty’s obsession, and the nature of the lengths he’s willing to go, the likelihood of their respective deaths taking place under unrelated circumstances is virtually nil.

 

 

Sherlock files the information away to be examined later.  It’s something that can’t be changed, and it’s not relevant to the current situation anyway.

 

 

After Moriarty leaves and Sherlock has thrown the vest as far away from them as possible, the adrenalin starts to wear off and Sherlock’s body visibly betrays him.  The signs that he is at the mercy of his transport are glaringly obvious as his hands shake, he can’t stop pacing and he stutters out an incoherent thank-you.   He suddenly feels an overwhelming need to wrap his arms around John and hold him close until they both stop shaking.  That would be unacceptable, though, so he does no such thing.  

 

 

Moriarty returns, of course.  Sherlock’s mind isn’t operating at maximum capacity as he desperately tries to think of a way out of this.  He and John may not die today, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be badly injured.  He’d rather avoid that if he can, but he can think of no other way as he aims John’s gun at the vest lying at Moriarty’s feet.

 

 

They are saved by the strains of a song, and as Moriarty says, “Wrong day to die,” Sherlock knows that truer words were never spoken.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_Three months later_ **

 

 

The door slides shut behind them. The two of them trudge up the steps, Sherlock's reflecting the echoes of futility, John's steady and stalwart behind him. The door to their flat opens, and Sherlock vacantly makes his way to the sofa before slumping into the soft, familiar cushions.

 

 

It has been a very, very rough two days.

 

 

 

 

 

_Sherlock hadn't wanted to take the case from the very beginning. Two days ago, Lestrade had called them in on a missing person's case. A robbery had taken place three days previous in a jewellery store. In a panicked, desperate act, the burglars had nabbed the nearest customer, a young lady, and taken off in their getaway car. Neither hide nor hair of the girl or the criminals had been found. As the two of them followed Lestrade into his office for a viewing of the store's CCTV, the inspector told them they had identified the victim, Amanda Whitaker. At the mention of her name, Sherlock had frozen.  Amanda, Eddie Van Coon's secretary. In resignation, he sat down, John peering over his shoulder, and watched the footage without emotion._

_As soon as it was over, Sherlock pushed back his chair and opened his mouth to decline.  "There's not much for me to go on here, Lestrade," he had said flatly. "I can't make bricks without straw. When you have something a little more concrete, give me a call."_

_Then he had glanced at John, and saw the disappointment on his friend's features. His gut clenched. He felt a pang in his chest. After the whole Moriarty debacle, he had found it increasingly hard to contribute to John's perception of him as a cold-hearted bastard.  He needed to go through the motions, even though he knew nothing he did would make a difference._

_He sighed. "Alright then; let's start with the crime scene."_

_Two days later, they caught the thieves. After some very persuasive interrogation, they led them to Amanda - in an abandoned car by the Thames.  After Sherlock opened the boot and saw her battered body, he turned away as John stepped in and verified what he already knew.  Weary and resigned, he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and wandered away from the scene._

_He didn’t get far before he was faced with an unwanted confrontation._

_“Oi!  Holmes!”_

_Sherlock stopped, shoulders rigid with tension as he waited for the expected onslaught._

_Sally Donovan grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. Her eyebrows were pinched together, mouth drawn downward._

_“I know you didn’t want to take this case ever since the boss brought it to you.  Probably not interesting enough, or some such rot.  Just your garden variety robbery, right?”  Sally’s jaw clenched in anger._

_“You caught the perps, though.  Good on you.    What was Amanda to you, just collateral damage?  You couldn’t even be bothered to check and see if she was alright!”  Her eyes flashed dangerously.  “Doesn’t it bother you at all, knowing that if you had worked just a little faster, put that much more effort into it, that she might still be alive?  Oh scratch that; I forgot who I was talking to there for a second.”_

_Sherlock forced his face to remain perfectly blank.  “I’ll think you’ll find, Sergeant,” he replied in a flat voice bordering on bored, “that she was dead two days before Lestrade even came to me.  Sadly for you, you can’t pin the failure for this one on me.”_

_Disbelief crossed Sally’s face before she huffed, “Unbelievable.” She glared at him once more before turning around and stalking away._

_Sherlock bit his lip as he watched her go, running his response through his head. Donovan was a smart woman.  If she felt inclined to further reflect on his words, the implications might lead her to devastating, if erroneous, conclusions._

_Sherlock shook his head, dispelling the thought.  Small minds came up with stupid and wrong ideas all the time.  That just made them stupid and wrong.  No sense wasting his mental energy on such things._

 

 

Now, several hours later Sherlock and John are home after a gruelling paperwork session. Sherlock runs his hands distractedly through his hair, huffing out a sound of frustration before cradling his forehead in his palms. It had been an exercise in utter futility for the would-be rescuers and a vain hope for Amanda's family and friends, leaving everyone drained and exhausted with nothing to show for it.

 

 

Sherlock won’t be taking on any missing person's cases in the future.

 

 

John doesn't offer any words of consolation. That alone shows how well he’s come to know Sherlock, how accurately he can read him.  Instead, he retrieves a bottle of scotch and two tumblers from the cupboard, and pours them each three fingers worth of alcohol.  He sets one glass on the coffee table next to Sherlock’s knee, then sits down in his armchair with his own drink clenched tightly in his hand.  He’s obviously deeply affected; most people are when they know the victim, no matter how casually. Sherlock snatches up the drink, throws his head back and gulps it all down in one swallow.  Grimacing, he plunks it back down, careless of the stain he’s leaving.  John makes no disapproving noise in the back of his throat.

 

Ten minutes pass in silence. It's not quite awkward, and it's not quite comfortable. John finally stirs, clearing his throat.

 

"I think we're due for a movie night, don't you?" he asks, aiming for casual and missing by a long shot.  "The last one we had was... two weeks ago?  I think it's time."

 

Sherlock shakes himself out of his reverie, turning to look at John with tired, red-rimmed eyes. He is exhausted and, despite himself, emotionally spent. His body yearns for sleep, but his mind screams for distraction.

 

"Yes. I get to choose this time. I'd like to avoid the inanities that make up the films you seem to favour. At least with my choices, you might learn something that will actually be of use in the real world."

 

John smirks. "Oh sure, that's why I want to watch a movie; to be educated, not entertained."

 

"Exactly.  Oh, you’re being sarcastic.  Why are you being sarcastic?"

 

John rolls his eyes. "No reason. Off you go, then. The rental store closes in an hour. I'll re-heat some of that lasagne Mrs Hudson brought up for us earlier."

 

Sherlock scowls as he gets up to put on his coat and scarf. "I'm not hungry."

 

"You haven't eaten for two days. I don't care if you're hungry or not, you'll be eating. If you refuse, then no movie."

 

A disgusted sigh is followed by a disgruntled, "Fine," as six feet of consulting detective in a strop sulks out the door, slamming it behind him.

 

John smiles.

 

 

***

 

 

Thirty minutes later Sherlock bounds up the seventeen steps in a whirlwind of childlike excitement. He practically skips into the flat, flashing John a brilliant grin as he whips his coat and scarf off and places them on the coat rack.

 

"John, I think you'll be pleased by my selections," he states smugly, flourishing his bag. He reaches in and takes out two DVD's. "I got us a documentary about insects, and some kind of educational programme on mathematics. Certainly less mind-numbing than your atrocious choices that you insist on subjecting me to time and time again."

 

John frowns. "You liked our Bond marathon."

 

Sherlock blushes. "Yes, that was not a complete waste of time, and mildly enjoyable. I'm talking about that Jar Jar Finks creature, and those movies about baggins or pippins or whatever those silly creatures are..."

 

John closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath before speaking. "Jar Jar Binks, Sherlock. And the other word you're looking for is hobbits. Who are *not* silly creatures, by the way. They're brave and loyal, and they end up being the heroes of the story in the end."

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes, just choose one of these and pop it in the player, would you?"

John holds out his hands and takes the two cases from Sherlock.  He glances at them as he walks into the sitting room.  His gait falters and he almost trips over his own feet.  Laughter bubbles up before he can censor himself.  He turns to Sherlock, glee sparkling in his eyes.

 

 

“This is your insect documentary?  A Bug’s Life?”

 

Sherlock bristles.  “It was my turn, I get to choose what _I’m_ interested in, remember?”

 

John’s eyes twinkle.  “Oh, I’m not disputing that, at all.  I’ll gladly sit through ‘A Bug’s Life’ with you.  Only, it’s not a documentary, Sherlock.”

 

“No?  What is it, then?”

 

“It’s a Pixar movie, Sherlock; an animated kid’s story.  Couldn’t you deduce that from the DVD cover?”

 

Sherlock’s face turns a spectacular shade of red.  “A – a children’s story?”

 

John laughs.  “Yes.  But now that you got it, we have to watch it.  No backing out.”

 

Sherlock clears his throat.  “We’ll just watch the other one, then.”

 

“Uh, yeah, not sure that one will be any more up your street than this one.”

 

“What?  Why?”

 

“Because the other one you picked is ‘Life of Pi’.  Not about mathematics, Sherlock.  It’s about a boy’s spiritual journey.”

 

Sherlock makes a moue of distaste.  “Spiritual journey?” he grinds out, as though it physically pains him to do so.

 

John grins.  “Yes.  But you’re right; I forced you to watch my selections, now it’s my turn to sit through yours.  Food’s almost ready.  Sit, and I’ll bring you some, and more scotch if you’d like.  Pick which movie you want to start with, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He smirks at Sherlock’s horrified expression before he turns around and heads into the kitchen.

 

 ***

 

 

In the end, they watch both movies as they finish off two bottles of scotch.  They get spectacularly drunk as they giggle through ‘A Bug’s Life’; they get even more drunk as they become seriously contemplative during ‘Life of Pi’, so serious that they end up having a philosophical discussion until two in the morning.  Neither one will remember much of what happens, or what they talk about, but that’s the point, really.  To forget the senseless tragedy that, at least to one person’s perspective, had never had any hope of being prevented.

 

They fall asleep together on the sofa, legs entangled with Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder and John’s hand resting in Sherlock’s hair.  The next day they will waken to throbbing heads, aching backs and cottony mouths, along with a feeling of listlessness that will take a while to abate.  But for now, they are cocooned in sweet oblivion and granted absolution from what had always been beyond their control.  For now, they are at peace.

 

* * *

 

 

John briefly swims up to consciousness as the morning light weakly slips through the partly-drawn drapes.  He blinks the crust from his eyes and tries to get his bearings, disoriented at his unfamiliar position and surroundings.  His neck is stiff with a crick, he can’t seem to move his legs, and there’s a heavy weight on his shoulder.  There’s silky softness underneath his hand; when he experimentally wiggles his fingers, the weight on his shoulder shifts slightly and a low hum rumbles in his ear. 

 

Ah, right.  Sherlock had fallen asleep on him, and John had been far too boneless and comfortable to bother extricating himself.  He’s not quite as comfortable now, but he doesn’t want to disturb Sherlock when he’s sleeping so deeply.  Lord knows the man doesn’t sleep enough at the best of times, and after the case that had just ended he needs it more desperately than normal.

 

John risks some movement in order to get a proper look at Sherlock’s face.   This is the most unguarded he’s ever seen his flatmate.  Sherlock works so hard at maintaining his persona of cool indifference, to carefully cover up and repair all the chinks in his armour, and after this case John can understand why.  It had been an especially unpleasant and tragic experience, exposing even Sherlock’s well-suppressed vulnerabilities.  John isn’t sure what those vulnerabilities actually are, but given his friend’s insistence against caring about anybody or anything, he has his suspicions.

 

Sherlock’s chosen profession is fraught with risk and uncertain outcomes, sometimes even more so than Lestrade’s.  It’s the nature of the work, a defining part of it, at times.  It’s not surprising that he would feel the need to distance himself in order to minimize the emotional fallout in the event of an unsatisfactory conclusion.  But other people deal with similar situations in their line of work… doctors and soldiers, for two examples…  yet still manage to retain their humanity.  Sherlock seems to be above all of that, all of those messy, irrational emotions.  And yet this case had brought out some of that humanity in him.  John could tell he had been shaken and unhappy at the end, that it had been an effort for him to maintain his sang-froid.

 

Lost in thought, John unconsciously cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp.  Sherlock hums appreciatively – hell, the man practically _purrs –_ and John feels an unexpected thrill shiver up his spine at the sound.  A feeling of tenderness sweeps over him, and without thinking he presses his lips to Sherlock’s temple in a light kiss.

 

 

A soft snore vibrates against his ear, and John quashes a huff of laughter.  Sherlock is dead to the world, it seems, with no indication of waking anytime soon.  John resigns himself to not moving from his spot for the foreseeable future.  Sherlock is like a great bloody cat that falls asleep on his owner secure in the knowledge that said owner won’t move for fear of disturbing his rest.  John is pretty sure he should be insulted by that metaphor, but he’s really not.  He doesn’t want to think too long and hard about what that says about himself.

 

He knows that this is most likely a one-off, this evening of magic moments they have just shared.  The only reason Sherlock has let down his guard so much this time is due to a rare combination of exhaustion, adrenaline, tragedy and alcohol.  Those four elements have never been present before at the same time, and most likely never will be again.  When they both wake up tomorrow – or rather, later today – Sherlock will retreat inside his shell and re-don the persona of the unruffled, untouchable detective.  And John will have to quell the hopeful flutter in his belly, lower his expectations, and settle for something that doesn’t quite meet the cravings he can’t put a name to yet.

 

Because the work is the only thing that Sherlock allows himself to care about.  Anything else is gratuitous and unnecessary – including John himself, unless he’s playing the role of assistant, blogger, or occasional conductor of light.

 

John will take what he can get. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art depicted above was graciously commissioned for me by prettybirdy979. It was drawn by the incredibly talented artist Sadyna, and can be found [here](http://sadynax.tumblr.com/post/65038909159/john-sherlock-sleeping-on-the-sofa-commission)
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> My tumblr is www.pipmer.tumblr.com. I'd be delighted to get more followers! Sometimes I'm late, but you can get fic updates there if you're interested.
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> I treasure each and every comment, and I apologise for the fact I haven't responded to any yet. I have severe connection problems with my computer, but I promise that I _will_ respond. 
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> As ever, thanks for reading!


	4. The Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who missed it, some gorgeous artwork has been added to the last chapter. It's at the very end of the chapter, with a link to the artist in the endnotes. 
> 
>  
> 
> My tumblr: www.pipmer.tumblr.com

**_September, 2011_ **

 

 

He has met only four people in the thirty-two years of his existence that can keep up with or surpass him intellectually.  One of them is his own brother.  One of them is dead.  One of them recently tried to kill him.

 

The fourth is standing before him, naked as the day she was born.  The only thing he can read off her are the numbers that disappeared from her forehead just moments earlier.  Her death isn’t far off, but in the meantime he intends to enjoy the sparring going on between the two of them. 

 

He notices John’s discomfort, but he doesn’t understand it.  John is a known ladies’ man, he should be salivating over a beautiful, naked Irene Adler, but he’s obviously not enjoying the view.  Sherlock has no idea what that means, but it’s interesting enough for him to save it away in a secure file in his hard drive to be pondered over later.

 

Once again John’s life is threatened when the CIA agent jams a gun into his neck.  John will certainly escape death, but there are still a number of unacceptable alternatives that are possible.  Biological death is final and absolute, but there are worse ways to lose one’s life.  Funny how that thought hasn’t occurred to him until this moment.  He’s never thought twice about dragging John into danger right and left, assuming invincibility just because of their respective numbers.  This new perspective is _extremely_ inconvenient.  

 

Thank god Sherlock’s brain works faster than most as he yells ‘Stop!’, turns and enters Irene’s measurements into the keypad.

 

Sherlock breathes out a sigh of relief when the safe unlatches.

 

 

***

 

 

The Woman slips into a file that he doesn’t delete, but doesn’t pay much attention to either.  He couldn’t completely forget her even if he wanted to, what with the flurry of annoying text alerts she keeps sending.  He continues to ignore them, although he doesn’t change the tone, primarily because he finds it endlessly amusing how much it irritates John.  He can’t figure out _why_ it irritates John, which is a delightful puzzle in and of itself.  

 

Irene _does_ intrigue him, true, but she’s not something that will hold his undivided attention for any length of time.  That honour belongs to the man who has become, despite Sherlock’s intentions otherwise, not only a competent colleague but also a friend who might, if given the chance, rival the connection he had with Victor.  It is a disquieting thought that all of his attempts at distance and aloofness have not resulted in the desired effect of non-attachment.  If he’s not careful he might allow that old enemy _sentiment_ to creep back in, and nothing good has ever come of that.  Especially for someone in his unique situation.

 

A brilliant case comes along that demands his total focus, and it couldn’t have come at a more opportune time.  Sherlock sets the conundrum of John aside for the time being, and sets his extraordinary mind to the problem at hand.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_December 24, 2011_ **

 

 

He stares down at the body that Molly has just uncovered.  As with every other corpse he’s ever examined, no obvious red clues on the forehead shout for his attention, no indisputable proclamation of when her life had ended.  Nameless, numberless bodies on slabs have always given him the distance he needs.  The important thing was solving the mystery of _how_ they died, and who or what was responsible.  

 

This time, he’s here for a completely different reason.  He makes his identification the only way he can.  There can be no doubt that it’s her – except for one small detail known only to him, that he can’t mention to anyone else.

 

 

***

 

 

“How did you know she was dead?”

 

 

Sherlock stiffens as he exhales the poison from his lungs, poison that he hasn’t indulged in for over five years.  Mycroft _would_ ask that question.  Sherlock is certain that his brother still believes he had something to do with their father’s death.  He most likely wonders if Sherlock had something to do with Irene’s as well.  He fights back the only way he knows how.

 

 

“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

 

 

He _knows_ there’s something wrong with himself, of course; he knows why _he_ can’t afford to care about people.  But Mycroft has no excuse for his Iceman persona.  Maybe he’s the true sociopath of the family.

 

 

Sherlock does an inward eye roll at Mycroft’s response.  “All lives end.  All hearts are broken.   Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

 

 

_Yes, thank you for that_ , _brother dear.  I figured that out several years ago._

 

 

He thinks of the double meaning of his brother’s phrase, “Caring is not an advantage”.  First of all, it’s not an advantage for the people on the receiving end.  They are going to die when their numbers say they will, no sooner and no later.  Caring about them has never and will never change their fate. 

 

 It’s also not an advantage for those on the giving end.  The only thing that they will be graced with is heartache and grief.  Love is a dangerous disadvantage that only leads to pain and loss. 

 

 

Sherlock will not allow himself to be on the losing side.

 

 

 

***

 

 

John clearly doesn’t understand the reason for his recent depression.  For one thing, it’s not depression at all.  It’s bewilderment.  He’s absolutely befuddled.  

 

 

As soon as he had opened Irene’s present, he had known what had happened.  However, it should have been impossible.  He knew he hadn’t got the date wrong; even if he were still in the habit of deleting them, he wouldn’t have deleted _hers._   And yet, in his hands had lain the proof that she was dead.  The trip to the morgue had confirmed it.  Her numbers had been _wrong._

 

 

The numbers were _never_ wrong. 

 

 

Sherlock spends the next week lost in contemplation of how such a thing is possible.  He can’t count on many things being consistent in his life, but this was one of the things that he had always been able to rely on.  It’s like finding out that there’s a flaw in his deductive process.  It shatters his worldview, and that’s not an easy thing to recover from.

 

 

As unnerving as it is to have this foreknowledge, over the years it’s become… comforting, in a sense.  There are no surprises, no unexpected deaths that he’s not prepared for.  He knows whose continued existence is assured, and whose is not.

 

 

Now that assurance is gone.

 

 

 

There’s a moment when he thinks he has it figured it out, when he is reminded of John’s blog counter being stuck at 1895.  Hope flares hot and painful in his chest as the thought occurs to him that Irene could very well be clever enough to still be alive and trying to send him a message.  He quickly keys ‘1895’ into her phone’s keypad, and….

 

 

Nothing.  The brief flash of hope dies a reluctant death.

 

 

Sherlock picks up his violin and attempts to lose himself again in the music.  He barely registers the soft tread of retreating feet and the gentle closing of the door.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

John sits in the restaurant, soda in front of him and an aura of defeat surrounding him.  His left hand clenches and unclenches; he’s probably not even aware he’s doing it.  He doesn’t seem to be aware of much at the moment.

 

 

Harry notices all of this but doesn’t mention it as she slips into the booth opposite her brother.  She had been upset with him for cancelling their Christmas plans, especially since the reason – once again – had been bloody Sherlock Holmes.  Christ, she hasn’t even met the man yet and she hates him with an intensity that almost scares her.  He’s a manipulative, conniving bastard who uses people to his advantage and then discards them.  Harry doesn’t know what John sees in him, truly.  She would have been gone after a month.

 

Right now, though, she’s not upset.  John had called her an hour ago, asking if they could meet for dinner.  He worded it as a desire to make up for their aborted Christmas, but she knows it’s for a different reason.  He rarely feels the need to make amends for any of their cancelled plans, so it must be because he needs to vent.  The closest friend he has these days is his damn flatmate, and the only other person he can turn to is her, inadequate sounding board that she is.  It’s the least she can do for him, after all the shit she’s put him through in the past.

 

 

“Alright?” she asks as she gently makes her presence known.

 

 

John takes a breath as he looks up; he’s trying to put the mask up, but it’s not a very successful attempt.

 

 

“Hello, Harry,” he says warmly, and that part’s not faked.  His eyes widen in surprise.  “You’ve changed your hair.”

 

 

Harry grins.  “Yep.  Two days ago.  How do you like me as a blonde?”  She tosses her head, relishing the feeling of lightness and the fact that her hair no longer constantly hangs in her eyes.

 

 

John smiles.  “A bob suits you.  You’re looking very well, Harry.  Thanks for coming on such short notice.  I need to apologise again for Christmas, it’s just that Sherlock – “

 

 

“Needed you, yeah, I got that,” Harry replies a bit too curtly.  She softens her tone and tries again.  “I’m sorry, John.  Someone he knew died?”

 

John sighs as he rubs the back of his neck.  “Yeah, someone he was pretty obsessed with, actually.  A… rival, I guess you’d say.  She distracted him from the tedium of life, I suppose.”

 

Harry raises an eyebrow.  “She?” she repeated.  “I thought Sherlock wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.”

 

“He’s not.  I mean, he’s not interested in romantic relationships at all.  He’s really not interested in _any_ kind of relationship, I don’t think.  She stimulated him intellectually.  That’s really the only kind of interaction he likes to engage in.  Now she’s gone, and he’s – depressed, for lack of a better word.”

 

He glances at her a bit shamefaced.  “Sorry, I don’t mean to natter on about him.  Here.”  He reaches down next to him and brings up a brightly wrapped package, all red Christmas cheer with a gold bow.  Harry smiles as she retrieves a smaller silver box from her rucksack and hands it over. 

 

The two open their presents.  Harry’s is a seafoam green cashmere jumper that brings out her emerald eyes.  John’s is a brown leather-bound notebook and fountain pen.  “For writing up your cases,” Harry informs him.  They then order a very large, very sumptuous dinner.  Neither of them have had a proper Christmas dinner in years, and they relish the opportunity to indulge now, even though it’s not technically Christmas any longer.  Harry doesn’t order any alcohol despite the fact that she had imbibed as recently as two weeks ago.  Through no fault of her own, of course; Clara had left _her_ , this time, and she had needed the crutch.  She will not risk incurring her brother’s disappointment today, so she just drinks a club soda.

 

The conversation goes back and forth between them, but always, _always,_ anything John has to say includes Sherlock in a starring role.  Or at least anything that he displays any amount of enthusiasm about.  His face becomes animated, his eyes shine, and his hands gesticulate emphatically.  Harry watches and listens, entranced, and as she does she comes to an incontrovertible conclusion.  She sets her fork down and leans back in her seat, carefully studying her brother to make sure she’s got it right.  

 

She does.

 

She patiently waits for John to come to a pause in his narrative.  When he finally does, she leans forward ever so slightly and speaks softly.

 

“Oh, Johnny… really?  You do know that he’ll never return your feelings, right?”

 

John abruptly stops in the middle of bringing a forkful of chicken to his mouth.  He stares at her, eyes wide.  He looks like a deer caught in the headlights. 

 

He takes a bite and says around his food, “I’m not gay, Harry.”

 

She shrugs.  “Didn’t say you were.  But it’s obvious what he is to you.  And now I really _am_ worried about you, John. I gotta say, if he’s the best friend you’ve got, that’s not saying much for your taste in mates.  From where I’m sitting, you give and give and get nothing back in return.  You deserve better.”

 

 

John swallows, takes a sip of water, and looks Harry in the eye.  His voice is steady when he replies.  “You’re partly right, Harry.”  He folds his hands together and takes a deep breath.

 

 

“He was playing the violin today; it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.  And it was all for _her._  For a woman he barely knew, who only ever saw him as an interesting diversion.  And I can’t help but think that he wouldn’t feel a _fraction_ of that if it were me.  _Me,_ his best friend.”  

 

He huffs and looks away.  “Well, _only_ friend, if you were to ask him.”  He shakes his head.  “The game will always be more important to him than anything else.  I needed to get away before I said something I’d regret, so here we are.”

 

 

He pauses and looks down at his hands for a moment.  “But - there’s also something you don’t get, Harry.  How can I explain this?” He licks his lips before continuing.

 

“Alright, see… I had nothing when I got back from Afghanistan.   You and I…we weren’t speaking, and all my friends were still back in the desert.  I had nothing in common with anybody I knew here anymore.  I had no job.  I had no money.  Everything had been taken away from me.

 

“Then I met him, and my life literally changed overnight.  No -  my life didn’t just change; it was given back to me.  I was _resurrected,_ Harry.  Sherlock did that.  He did it within forty-eight hours of our first meeting.”

 

 

John fiddles with the salt shaker and bites his lip.  “So… I try to be there when he needs me, to be a good friend, especially during a time like this – even if he barely acknowledges my existence.  Because.. well, because I owe him, really.  And after all is said and done, I’m having the time of my life.  I wouldn’t give it up for anything.”

 

Harry shakes her head, utterly flummoxed.  “I swear, John, I’ve never seen such a co-dependent relationship in my life.  And I’m the alcoholic!”

 

For some reason, that statement strikes both of them as very funny, and they burst into giggles.  It feels good, to connect like this again.  Harry relishes it.

 

Their laughter dies down, and John grows thoughtful.  They eat in silence for a few moments before he speaks again.

 

“I’m not sure why Sherlock is… the way he is.  His brother’s the same way; maybe it has something to do with how they were brought up.  Maybe he was ridiculed because people were intimidated by his brilliance, or maybe they were put off by his atrocious lack of social skills.  But I’ll take whatever he can give me.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to convince him that our friendship is worth whatever risks he’s trying to avoid.  In the meantime, we… just work.  We fit.  I’ll take it.  I’ll take _him.”_

 

Harry quells the vicious stab of jealousy she feels at John’s words.  What she wouldn’t give to be on the receiving end of such unconditional devotion.  She’s sure Sherlock Holmes doesn’t deserve such a thing.  But that’s the whole point of it being unconditional, isn’t it? 

 

John does seem happy, for the most part.  She just hopes that he comes away from it with neither a broken heart nor a loss of his entire self.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t bother hiding his relief when he discovers Irene is alive.  Well, it’s not _relief,_ exactly.  John probably thinks it’s ecstasy over having his ‘rival’ back again, but that’s not it.  It’s _satisfaction_.  He has confirmation that his confidence in his ‘ability’ hasn’t been misplaced.  His supposed vulnerability doesn’t actually exist; he has no weakness as he had feared.  He is once again perfectly in control and untouchable.  Nothing gets to him… and nothing ever will. 

 

 

Mycroft comes for a brief visit - Sherlock makes sure of that with his violin within easy reach - and the considering look his brother gives him makes Sherlock smirk. _That’s right; I didn’t kill her, you can rest easy once again_.  He wishes he could also declare, _It wasn’t sentiment, I’m not getting soft in my old age_ but he doesn’t dare.  He won’t give his brother more ammunition than he already has to use against him.  Sherlock shares what little information he has concerning Irene’s status and last known location, then drives his brother off with shrill, shrieking notes.   

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_January 30, 2012_ **

 

 

Sherlock can tell that John is relieved the whole business with Irene is over.  He is as well, to be honest, especially since he eventually came out on top, turning the tables on her in spectacular fashion.  He doesn’t resent her or bear her ill will, not really; she was clever and ruthless in pursuing her goal, and Sherlock can respect that.  She presented an interesting distraction, and it was fun while it lasted. 

 

He knows, however, that John does not approve.  He didn’t like her almost from the moment he set eyes on her.  Sherlock didn’t understand it then, and he doesn’t understand it now.  He was even more baffled when John had displayed such outrage over Irene’s faked death.  She had only been playing the game, and she had been playing to win.  Sherlock had seen nothing wrong with that. 

 

He decides he’ll question John about this at a time when he’s relaxed and content, possibly after a few beers.  He won’t be so likely to get defensive over Sherlock’s prying.  Sherlock knows the perfect venue.  They’ll go out to celebrate the anniversary of their first case together, The Pink Lady… or The Pink Phone… Pink Something.  Sherlock will get him to lower his walls a bit, lower his inhibitions, and maybe he won’t even realise what Sherlock is doing.

 

So now here they are, ensconced in their booth at The Golden Panda.  They grin at each other as they unconsciously re-enact that first meal together.  Sherlock again incorrectly guesses their fortune cookies.  John ignores the restrictions he’s put on himself concerning alcohol and nurses his third beer.  He loosens his belt, leans back in his seat and lets out a deep sigh of contentment.  He’s looking at Sherlock with that fond, warm expression he only ever bestows on his flatmate. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t beat around the bush; he comes right out and asks.  “Why do you dislike Irene so, John?  She’s beautiful, intelligent, successful… I thought that was something that had all red-blooded, heterosexual males chomping at the bit.”  

 

Out of the blue, an explanation pops into his mind.  It’s so obvious, he can’t believe he hasn’t thought of it before.  “Oh.  _Oh._ You…you were jealous because she was so obsessed with _me_ that she wouldn’t give _you_ the time of day!   That’s it, isn’t it?”

 

 

John gazes at him steadily.  He doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t look the least bit uncomfortable.  Okay, good.  Maybe he was expecting this line of questioning all along, and he had prepared himself beforehand.

 

John takes a bite of his banana fritters, chewing thoughtfully.  He looks Sherlock in the eye when he responds with, “So you’re not heterosexual?”

 

Sherlock eyes widen in surprise.   _That’s_ what John chooses to focus on?  Really?  Will this man ever stop putting Sherlock off balance?  He sincerely hopes not.

 

Sherlock shrugs in response.  John smirks.  He leans back a bit and clears his throat.  His smile fades.   “She exploited your weaknesses and took advantage of you at your most vulnerable.  She turned your display of humanity into something to be mocked rather than encouraged.   _That’s_ why I dislike her.”

 

John goes back to eating his dessert, pointedly breaking off eye contact.  Sherlock spends the next several minutes at a loss for words.  This rarely happens, and when it does the cause can always be traced to his flatmate.  Sherlock Holmes, dumbstruck, laid low by a simple declaration of friendship.  He’s out of his depth.

 

John peers up at Sherlock through his eyelashes as the silence remains unbroken.  “You alright?” he asks.

 

“Yeah – er – yes, fine.”  Sherlock clears his throat and shifts in his seat.  The atmosphere has suddenly grown awkward.  That feeling dissipates almost immediately when John gives him a radiant smile. 

 

“Is that what friends do?” Sherlock blurts out.  “That, I mean? Become upset on the other person’s behalf?  Even though it doesn’t affect them personally?”

 

John smiles gently.  “Yes, Sherlock.  That’s what friends do.  It’s called empathy, maybe you’ve heard of it?  You’re not actually a machine, are you?”

 

John says this with no hint of cruel sarcasm – in fact, it’s said in a teasing manner - but that doesn’t stop sharp pain from spiking through Sherlock’s chest.  It’s a Pavlovian response that kicks in at the words rather than the tone.   He almost doubles over from it.  He blanches and his hands grasp the edge of the table-top in a fierce grip.  John immediately switches into concerned friend mode, placing a reassuring hand on one of his own.

 

“Easy, Sherlock, easy; I was just making a joke.  I know you’re not a machine, I know you.  You’re just protecting yourself from something, I’m not sure what, but we’ve all been there.  I’m sorry.”

 

John’s thumb traces soothing circles along the back of Sherlock’s hand.  Gradually his breathing eases and his white-knuckled grip loses its tension.  He throws a grateful look John’s way when the doctor excuses himself to the loo, giving Sherlock the space he needs to compose himself.

 

They leave soon after. The cab back to Baker Street is spent in silence.  John does Sherlock the courtesy of not mentioning his minor panic attack, and in the days that follow he doesn’t patronise him by handling him with kid gloves. He continues to chastise him for his insensitivity and occasional rudeness.  They still get into screaming rows over the necessity to conform to certain social norms.  They are still themselves with each other.  The only difference is a smoothing of their edges, a bit of softening of their hard exteriors, a more secure fit into each other’s spaces. 

 

No one post-Victor has ever made such an effort to get past Sherlock’s walls, to see him for who he truly is.  John may not have a clue as to the true reasons behind his coldness, but he’s the one who’s come the closest to understanding him and his motivations.  Not just understanding; _embracing._

 

It feels like a turning point.  It’s both frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

 

 

 

***

 

 

A week after their ‘anniversary’ dinner, after much soul-searching, Sherlock concludes that his initial plan of moving on to a flat of his own is not going to happen.  He could certainly afford it now, with all the cases that have been coming their way thanks to John’s blog, and he is reasonably certain that he would no longer have a problem finding a landlord that would be willing to rent to him.  His name has been cropping up in the news more and more, and he’s beginning to establish a reputation.  

 

 

But he finds himself reluctant to part ways with John Watson.  After experiencing the most recent display of John’s affection, he realises that he’s become quite dependent on his flatmate’s proximity.  Even when John isn’t physically there, his presence makes itself known in every room and corner of the flat.  Sherlock can’t escape it, and what’s _really_ horrifying is that he doesn’t want to.

 

  

His mind flies back to their confrontation with Moriarty at the pool.  That’s where this path _truly_ began, the point of no return.  When he and John became truly bound together, with no chance of untangling the strands.

 

 

 

Sherlock will make the most of the nine months and three weeks remaining to them.

 

 

 

It’s early morning when Sherlock approaches John while he’s sitting at the kitchen table.  John’s face is soft with sleep as both his hands wrap around a coffee mug; his eyes slip shut as he inhales the aroma from the steam wafting upwards.  Sherlock stands in the entrance, taking in his flatmate’s rumpled form; his hair is flattened on one side, his cheek still bearing traces of his pillow imprint.  It’s ridiculously endearing.

 

Sherlock clears his throat.  John’s eyes flutter open and he smiles.  “Morning, Sherlock.  I made some coffee if you’d like some.”  He gestures towards the counter. 

 

“Maybe later.  I have something I need to show you.”

 

John quirks his eyebrow with curiosity.  “Yeah?  What’s that?”

 

Sherlock brings his hand from behind his back, flourishing a sheet of paper.  “This.  It’s a renewal of our lease for another year.  I’ve already signed it, it just needs your signature and I can give it to Mrs Hudson.”

 

John gives him a surprised look.  “Really?  It’s that time already?  Wow.  That really… went fast, didn’t it?”

 

“Yes.”  Sherlock lays the rental agreement next to John’s arm along with a pen.  “Whenever you’re awake enough.  None of the terms have changed, and the rent stays the same.  I already paid for the damage done to the walls with your gun, so you don’t have to worry about that.”  

 

He turns to the counter and takes down a mug from the cupboard.  He carefully pours himself some coffee, taking care to keep his back to John.  He tries to keep the tension from tightening up his shoulders as he scoops two teaspoons of sugar into his cup and carelessly stirs. 

 

John huffs with laughter.  Sounds of him reaching for the pen and the scratching of his name are music to Sherlock’s ears.  The tension bleeds out of him, and he quietly exhales a small breath in relief.

 

“Seriously, Sherlock?” John’s voice asks, laced with amusement.  “You were worried that I wouldn’t sign up for a second round?  You’re daft, you know that?  Where else would I go, do you think?”

 

Sherlock schools his face into a mask of indifference before he turns to face John.  He shrugs as he takes a sip of his coffee and their eyes meet.  “I wasn’t worried.  I just didn’t want to presume anything.”

 

John grins.  “Right.  We’ll just pretend that’s true.”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  “You aren’t even going to read it?”

 

John shrugs.  “No need.  You already told me what it says.  I trust you.”

 

Warmth blooms in Sherlock’s chest.  He tries for humour to mask the shakiness in his voice.  “That’s really not a good idea.”  He smiles.

 

John snorts.  “Yeah, I think you’re right.  It’s really not.  Look what happened when you told me you were going to get milk and beans.”

 

Coldness settles in his gut, but he hastily quashes it.  He’s not going to be the one to ruin this light-hearted moment.

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, and gives John a tight smile.  His hand reflexively tightens around his mug.  He hopes John doesn’t notice.

 

John pushes the lease agreement towards Sherlock.  “Give this to Mrs Hudson, then.  I need to get ready for work.” He stands up and pads towards the bathroom.  He turns around at the threshold and gives Sherlock a brilliant smile.  “Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone today, yeah?”

 

Sherlock’s heart thuds in his chest.  He swallows.  “Thank you, John,” he says.

 

John cocks his head, a confused look on his face.  “For what?”

 

Sherlock considers for a moment before responding.  He finally settles on an answer that’s true, and yet enigmatic enough to keep some truths well hidden.

 

“For not leaving.”  _Even though you should.  Even though this path will only lead to heartache and pain for us both._

 

 

Dismay briefly flicks across John’s face, and Sherlock knows he’s completely misconstrued his meaning.  It’s unfortunate, but Sherlock really isn’t in a position to set his friend straight.  At any rate, John’s expression is quickly sublimated in favour of fondness.  No more words are needed.  He nods, then turns and enters the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

Irene’s actual death date comes and goes, with Sherlock giving it barely a thought.  He respected her for proving cleverer than he had anticipated, even though he did beat her in the end, but he knew her demise was coming soon so he relegated thoughts of her to his mind attic.  She was just another unfortunate soul whose life was destined to be snuffed out prematurely, so Sherlock essentially banished her from his mind. 

 

 

One month after her death, John stands in their doorway with news of her fate.  Sherlock waits for John to spit it out.  He’s extremely curious as to what ultimately happened to her; he assumes that she was assassinated somehow by Moriarty’s men since Mycroft had refused to grant her any protection. 

 

 

What actually comes out of John’s mouth leaves him shocked and at sea, adrift in emotions he can’t identify.  Witness protection in America, he tells him.  And oh, what a horrible liar John is.  His body language is in direct contradiction to what he’s saying, as is the manner in which he’s saying it. 

 

Sherlock’s chest tightens with something unnameable.  It’s discomfort wrapped in affection inside of sentiment.  It’s what Sherlock told Irene was a chemical defect found on the losing side.  He’s never before experienced this rush of warmth to his extremities and the pleasant, swooping feeling in his stomach; he has no frame of reference for any of it. 

 

 Sherlock feels himself further losing grip on his resolve.  It loosens even more when John gives in and hands Sherlock Irene’s phone. 

 

 

 

_Why?_ Why is John lying to him?  He can’t be broken up about Irene’s death.  John is a good man, but Sherlock knows that part of him believes she got exactly what she deserved for betraying Queen and country.  Shouldn’t he at least be exhibiting signs of relief at the removal of a rival for Sherlock’s affections –

 

 

His thoughts stutter to a halt.  He hasn’t let himself go down this road before, knowing that it can only lead to false hope, but apparently his mind has a will of its own.  He forcibly redirects his thoughts to Irene’s phone, clamping down on the fluttering in his belly that he has no idea how to interpret.  If he can’t solve his flatmate, perhaps he can piece together this last puzzle that The Woman left him.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock barges into the room without knocking and slams the door.  He strides over to the large mahogany desk and bends down, planting both hands on the polished surface.  His face brooks no argument when he states, “I need to know how she died.”

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.  “How _who_ died?”

 

“Don’t play games with me, Mycroft, it doesn’t suit.  Irene Adler.  You and I both know she’s dead.  Why would you tell me otherwise?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes never break contact with Sherlock’s when he unflinchingly says, “What makes you think she’s dead?”

 

“Oh please!” Sherlock steps away from the desk in disgust and starts pacing, eyes on his brother the entire time.  “You sent John to tell me what happened to her.  _John._ A man who can’t lie to save his own life, let alone anyone else’s.  Obviously something terrible happened to Irene, and you knew I’d quickly deduce that.  So quit playing games, Mycroft, and tell me what I need to know.”

 

Mycroft lifts his chin, a clear sign that he isn’t intimidated by Sherlock’s disgruntled display.  “You automatically assumed that what happened was the worst case scenario?  She could be languishing in third-world prison somewhere.  She could have been grievously injured and lying in a coma in a London hospital.  Perhaps she endured extreme trauma and is locked away in a psychiatric facility.  Why do you think she’s dead?”

 

Sherlock clenches his jaw and bites out, “I have my sources.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t back down.  He stands up, bringing himself to his full impressive height, and says, “Really?  Even with her body lying on a slab right in front of you, you _still_ weren’t convinced she was dead, not really.  So why are you now so ready to accept second-hand information, hmm?  You’re always so keen to flaunt your cleverness for all to see.  Tell me, Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock scowls.  He repeats, “I _know_.  And you know that I know, especially after sending John.  You _wanted_ me to come to you for information.  But why?  Why didn’t you just tell me yourself?  It doesn’t make any _sense.”_

 

Mycroft smiles sadly and shakes his head.  “No, it wouldn’t, not to you, would it?”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes as the answer hits him.  Overcome with rage, he strides over to the wall and smashes his fist into it with a cry.  “I _did not kill her!”_ he screams, too overcome with fury to feel the pain.  “When will you get that through your thick skull, Mycroft?  I may have my shortcomings, but I am not a murderer!”

 

 

Mycroft’s eyes widen, then immediately soften.  “Oh Sherlock.  No, I’ve never, _ever_ thought that you murdered anybody.  What happened, Sherlock – that was a quarter of a century ago.  I was so young, and I handled it very badly.  We’ve never talked about it since.  Perhaps we should do so now….”

 

“No,” Sherlock hastily says, “no, let’s stay on course.  If you weren’t angling for a confession, then why the cloak and dagger routine to get me to come to you?” 

 

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like an harassed parent trying to explain adult things to a recalcitrant child.  “Sherlock, after seeing what Irene’s fake death did to you, John felt the need to smooth the way for you… to soften the blow, as it were.  So I allowed him to.  Possibly he didn’t want to leave you in a state of uncertainty again, always wondering whether or not she had succeeded in faking her death once more. He doesn’t like to see you in pain.  Surely you’ve realised that by now.”

 

Sherlock sighs.  “I do realise that.  And I appreciate it.  I just don’t understand it.”

 

Mycroft nods. “Like the stars.”

 

Sherlock smiles.  “Exactly like the stars.”

 

Mycroft continues, “I realised John wouldn’t appreciate me breaking the news to you in my own unsentimental way, so I left it up to him.  As you so wisely ascertained, I counted on his bumbling incompetence – oh don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true – to clue you in to the need for a brotherly chat.  I could tell you the news away from the oh-so-protective eyes and ears of John Watson.  He cares for you a great deal, you know.”

 

A cloud passes over Sherlock’s face.  “I know.  He really shouldn’t, because caring is not an advantage.”

 

Mycroft looks at him with what Sherlock could almost describe as sadness, if he didn’t know his brother as well as he does.  “No.  It really isn’t,” he responds.  “But I trust that at least _you’ve_ learned that lesson – haven’t you, Sherlock?  Tell me that you won’t make that mistake again.”

 

 

Mycroft holds his gaze intently, eyes shining bright.  Sherlock keeps his expression blank, but he inwardly squirms under the laser focus of his brother’s scrutiny.  He knows it’s ridiculous, but he feels as if he’s being pinned by someone with x-ray vision who can see all the inner workings of his mind and heart, including his deepening affection for his flatmate. 

 

 

Sherlock huffs.  “Of course I won’t.  I’ve learned that lesson quite well, thank you.”

 

 

 

Sherlock almost appreciates his brother’s concern.  He’d like to tell him that it’s misplaced, as it always seems to be.  That it’s not Sherlock he should be concerned for, but rather the man who’s become unreasonably attached to him .  As always, he keeps his silence.

 

 

Mycroft stares at him for several more beats before he blinks, and nods once.  “Good.”

 

 

Tableau broken, Mycroft goes on to tell him what actually happened to Irene.  Beheading in Karachi.  Suitably dramatic for a woman like her, Sherlock supposes.  It’s too bad her death had to be so soon after their introduction; she could have been another worthy adversary, with the added benefit of being far less dangerous than Moriarty.  But… all lives end.

 

 

When the two brothers finally part ways, Sherlock walks away with no more insight into Mycroft’s motivations than he had yesterday, or twenty years ago.    

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sherlock and John finally cross the boundary between friendship and... something more.


	5. Epiphanies and Turning Points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes I'm a college graduate. Why do you ask? Oh, because I apparently don't know how to count chapter numbers? Fair enough.
> 
> When one of my betas was helping me divide this story up into chapters, the draft we were working from didn't contain the final chapter. I was keeping that separate because I was still doing final edits on it. My frazzled brain failed to take that VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER into account when I started posting. Long story short, this fic is the same length it's always been; the chapter count has just gone up by one. Which means the whole thing won't be posted before Christmas, but will certainly be up before New Year's. Please accept my humble apologies; it wasn't done on purpose!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, just a reminder: the timelines and dates here won't match the canon episodes. Given that it's an AU, I've changed some things to suit the story.
> 
>    
> My tumblr: www.pipmer.tumblr.com

**_April, 2012_ **

 

 

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock, it’s me.  Look, we have a situation here, a missing person –“

 

“No.  I told you, no more missing person’s cases.  I thought I made that clear.”

 

 “Just a minute, Sherlock, hear me out.  Do you remember Alex Wilcox?”

 

“Of course.  Fraud case, five years ago.  Why?”

 

“His daughter’s been missing for five days.  All leads have dried up, and he specifically asked for your help.  Will you come?”

 

Sherlock remembers Jesse Wilcox.  At the time he took Alex’s case she was a shy, unassuming eleven-year old.  Alex had suspected one of his employees of embezzling funds from his company; he was sure he knew who it was, he just had no proof or incriminating evidence.  Sherlock had solved it ten hours after taking the case.  Jesse had been in awe of him, had followed him around like a puppy dog as he sniffed around Alex’s offices and interviewed his employees.  After the case had been wrapped up, she asked him to come to her class on Career Day and give a talk on what it was like to be the world’s only consulting detective.  Sherlock had just been starting his business at that point, and he was flattered by the girl’s adoration, so he agreed to do so.  The presentation had been a smashing success, and Jesse had beamed at him with gratitude afterwards.  She had made quite an impression on him, which means that Sherlock remembers with perfect clarity that she has many more decades yet to live. 

 

 

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

 

The recent photograph Lestrade gives Sherlock shows an attractive sixteen-year old girl, chocolate curls framing a face with twinkling brown eyes and a cheeky grin.  Since her father has become quite wealthy over the years, the prevailing theory is that she has been kidnapped for ransom.  Forty-eight hours after Sherlock is on the case, he determines that she was indeed kidnapped, by the brother of the embezzler, but not for money.  She was taken as a twisted sort of revenge for putting his brother behind bars, even though it was Sherlock who had actually caught him.  It doesn’t make much sense, but crimes involving emotion rarely do.

 

Felix Harrison has indeed been missing for the same amount of time as Jesse.  Sherlock visits his brother, Frederick, in prison, but the man claims ignorance of his brother’s activities.  The manhunt stretches out, until three weeks have gone by.  Lestrade grudgingly renames the operation from one of rescue to one of recovery.  Sherlock is furious.

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade sighs as Sherlock stands in front of his desk, dishevelled and wild-haired.  “You know what the odds are now of finding her alive, especially since we haven’t heard from her abductor – “

 

“One hundred per cent.  Those are the odds, Lestrade.  She is not dead.”

 

 

“How can you possibly know that, Sherlock?”

 

 

“Because there is no evidence claiming otherwise.”

 

 

“There’s also no evidence that she’s alive!”

 

 

“It doesn’t matter because if you lot are done looking, I’ll find her.”  Sherlock sweeps out of Lestrade’s office, a dark, avenging angel bent on justice. 

 

 

“Whatever happened to not caring about the victims,” Lestrade mutters to no one.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock has a breakthrough as he’s surfing the web for information.  He considers waking John for a moment, but the thought is quickly put aside.  It’s the middle of the night, and John has been juggling the surgery and this case for two solid weeks now, and he needs his rest.  It’s not like Sherlock will be in any danger if he goes alone, of course, but he sneaks John’s gun out of his desk drawer just in case.  With any luck he’ll be back before John wakes anyway.

 

 

He creeps upon the isolated cabin, deep in the woods.  He flicks the safety off John’s gun and makes his way to the door.  The nights have been unseasonably cold for the past week, but there is no evidence that the structure is being heated.  No smoke unfurls from the chimney.  Sherlock’s heart sinks in his chest, for no reason.  If Jesse is here, she is surely alive, so why does he feel this unnecessary disquiet? 

 

 

He fumbles for his torch as he gently pushes the door open.  He steadies the gun as he sweeps the light across the room, and his breath hitches when he sees Felix Harrison sprawled next to the fireplace, a gun held loosely in his left hand and an obvious gunshot wound on his left temple.  Most likely a suicide.  A weak whimper comes from the dark corner, and Sherlock swings his torch towards the sound.  It lights on Jesse, trussed up with arms and legs immobile, a dirty gag in her mouth.  She wears a flimsy, ragged nightgown and filthy socks.  Her eyes are closed and she is barely breathing.  With her limp, matted hair and sunken cheeks, she looks nothing like the vibrant girl in the photo.  Sherlock runs over to her and checks her pulse, which is weak and sluggish.  He whips his coat off himself and settles it around her before pulling out his phone, which thankfully has reception, and calls an ambulance.  He then calls Lestrade to inform him of the situation.

 

 

 

When he finally makes it home, after sunrise and therefore after John has awakened, he is greeted with a thorough dressing down by the good doctor.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John yells, face red and fists clenched.  He runs to Sherlock and yanks his gun out of his friend’s waistband.  “Why the _hell_ didn’t you wake me if you were going to be stupid enough to go there in the middle of the night?  Do you actually have a death wish?”

 

Sherlock blinks.  “No, of course not.  I was perfectly safe, and I _did_ save the girl – “

 

“You can’t possibly have known that!”  Spittle flies from John mouth.  “Harrison could have been there, _alive,_ and he could have killed you –“

 

“No he wouldn’t have,” Sherlock says with complete confidence as he takes his coat off.  He brushes past John as he walks into the kitchen.  John doesn’t let him get any further.

He grabs Sherlock by the arm and whirls him so that the two are face to face.

 

“Tell me, genius,” and his voice is deadly, “How. Could. You. Know. That.”

 

Sherlock shrugs John’s hand off.  “Because he was dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.  It would be hard for a dead man to have killed me, don’t you think, doctor?”

 

“But you didn’t… you couldn’t have known he was dead before you got there!”

 

Sherlock gives him a smug look.  “Couldn’t I?”

 

“No, you bloody well could n-“

 

“Enough!”  Sherlock shouts.  “The criminal has been apprehended… or would be, if he wasn’t dead… and the girl has been found alive.  That is what they call a result.  I was led to believe that was the important thing, in these cases.  The victim has been saved.  That’s the only thing that matters.”

 

He turns away and heads towards his room, no longer in the mood for a soothing cup of tea.  He shuts the door, but not before he thinks he hears John mutter, “You matter too.”

 

 

***

 

 

 

He lies on his bed and steeples his fingers under his chin.  He’s been mulling over this latest case with Jesse.  Something has been nagging at him, and he can’t quite let it alone.  He thinks that perhaps he’s been looking at this whole thing the wrong way. 

 

He’s always come at it from the angle that it’s useless to attempt to save people from dying on the day they’re supposed to.  What if he were to turn that around and look at it from a _survivor’s_ point of view?  What if some people _don’t_ end up dying on a certain day precisely because someone was able to intervene and stop it from happening?  Is this how Sherlock could possibly be making a difference without even realising it?

 

He was the only one who had known for certain that Jesse was not dead, so he was the only one actively looking for her when everyone else had given up hope.  She had been in such an isolated location that no one else would have found her before she starved or died of dehydration.  If Sherlock hadn’t been so tenacious because of his own special brand of clairvoyance, Jesse would be dead.

 

Could it be that caring about them really _can_ help save them?

 

 

 

***

 

 

The next time Sherlock speaks to John, he’s covered in pig’s blood and carrying a harpoon.  Not a word is said about their previous exchange, nor is there any residual awkwardness to their interactions.  Sherlock couldn’t be more grateful.  He can’t explain his actions to John in more depth than he already has, and he lives in dread of the day when it will no longer be enough.  When John will finally confront him and demand answers to all the questions that must be swirling around in his brain.

 

His friend is only human, and sooner or later he’ll run out of tolerance for Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies.  He’ll either insist on an explanation, or he’ll leave.  Sherlock can admit to himself that John really _should_ leave; it’d be better for both of them in the long run.  But for better or worse, Sherlock does not want that to happen.  Apparently, quite without his permission and almost without his notice, John has become essential to his clarity of mind.  Despite the fact that this situation will be short-lived, Sherlock needs to hold onto it for as long as he is able.

 

 

 

Thankfully a distraction from all these unsettling thoughts arrives in the form of Henry Knight, and Sherlock and John embark upon a case that turns out to be one of the most engaging of the detective’s career.

 

 

It’s not until the mystery is wrapped up to his satisfaction that the ramifications sneak up on him as stealthily as an illusory hound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_May 1, 2012_ **

 

Sherlock huddles in upon himself, body in the foetal position, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his torso.  He shakes, unable to stop.  Sweat gushes out of his pores, and his teeth chatter.  It feels like the flu, his body alternating between chills and fever.  He faces the wall, back to the rest of the room and to the other (unoccupied) bed.

 

He knows that this is just an effect of having been exposed to the gas _again_ not four hours ago, in Dewer’s Hollow, but that knowledge doesn’t make the symptoms any less severe.  They’re worse than last time, even though he was exposed for about the same length of time.  None of the others are experiencing this extreme discomfort; only him.  It’s not the shock of seeing Frankland blown up before his very eyes; he’s witnessed many deaths before, some just as gruesome.  And it’s not like he hadn’t known it was coming.

 

No, the reason he’s so affected this time is not because he saw a monstrous hound.  His eyes squeeze shut as he tries to banish the sight currently playing out behind his eyelids, the scene unfolding exactly as he remembers it.  Memory mingling with drug-addled hallucination as Frankland runs onto the minefield.  Watching in horror as the image of the scientist morphs into John Watson seconds before being blown to bits right in front of him, and not being able to do a thing about it.  Just like he wasn’t able to save his father, or Victor.  Just like he won’t be able to save -

 

He stiffens when he hears the door to their room open and close.  Footsteps with a heavy tread make their way across the wood floor, slowing down the closer they get.

 

“Sherlock?  Sherlock, are you all right?  Why did you leave the light on?  Oh Christ, _Sherlock….”_

Hurried steps patter the remaining way to Sherlock’s bed.  The mattress dips, and a hand gently but firmly latches onto his shoulder and forces him to turn over.  Ashamed, Sherlock places his hands over his face.  He leans into the comforting embrace of his friend, who pulls him into the circle of his arms as he softly murmurs in a low voice, “It’s all right, Sherlock.  It’s all right, I’ve got you, easy, easy now, _shhh_ ….”

 

Sherlock grips John’s arms and buries his face in John’s neck.  He shakes and shakes, tears streaming from his eyes as he tries to get his breathing under control.  He lets John’s soothing hands caress his back and rub his arms; he even lets him pet his hair and card his fingers through it.  He doesn’t know how much time passes as they lie there together, John whispering nonsense into his ear as his trembling slowly subsides.  Eventually his weeping ceases and his breathing evens out.  His grip on John, however, doesn’t ease.  John doesn’t try to pull away.

 

Sherlock takes a shuddering breath and opens his eyes… to look into soft blue ones.  Their faces are mere centimetres apart; Sherlock can practically taste the beer on John’s breath.  Suddenly, he can’t do it anymore.  He can’t continue fighting this, fighting _them_ , not now, not after all they’ve been through this trip.  The emotional turmoil of the last few days, the testing of their friendship has taken its toll on Sherlock’s control, and he finally surrenders to his longing for connection.

 

Sherlock’s lips meet John’s, and the floodgates crash open.

 

 

***

 

 

John knows he shouldn’t give in, especially not right now, the timing is frankly _horrible._ Both he and Sherlock are emotionally compromised; any intimacy they initiate at this time has a very low chance of being sustained.  But he doesn’t have the will to resist this pull between them any longer, not when Sherlock is here in his arms, pliant, vulnerable and more human than John’s ever seen him.  John knows he’s taking advantage, that it’s very likely that after the drugs have flushed from his system Sherlock will push him away and attempt to re-establish the distance between them.  But right now, he’s opening himself up, allowing John to see him at his worst, and John just isn’t strong enough.

 

Their kisses are messy and sloppy as their mutual desire quickly crescendos into need.  John’s pretty sure Sherlock’s never been with anybody before, and his clumsy technique seems to bear this out.  His desperation for physical contact is apparent when he divests himself of his t-shirt and forces John to get rid of his own jacket and shirt.  They come together, chest to chest and skin on skin, continuing their kisses the entire time.  Sherlock makes frantic, needy noises and it’s all John can do to regain his senses and try to establish some control over the situation.

 

He pulls away from Sherlock and cups his friend’s cheek, thumb caressing in what he hopes is a soothing manner.  “We need to slow down, Sherlock,” he says gently.

 

 

Sherlock’s swollen lips glisten enticingly.  His brow furrows in confusion and his voice sounds lost and so very young as he asks, “Why?”

 

 

John swallows.  “It’s not that I don’t want this; _god,_ do I want it… but we need to let the drug leave our system, yeah?  Neither of us is clear-headed, and I don’t want us to do anything we’ll regret.  I’ll stay here with you, in your bed, if you’d like, but I don’t think it’s wise for us to… go any further tonight.  Tomorrow we can decide what it is we really want.  When we’re both thinking clearly.”

 

John still feels minute tremors going through Sherlock’s body, and he knows he’s making the right decision.

 

Sherlock looks at him intently, eyes boring into his own.  They focus slightly, and John breathes a sigh of relief when he catches a glimmer of rationality starting to reclaim his friend’s mind.  Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.  When he opens them, they are once again clear and radiant with awareness.

 

“All right,” he says softly, and John leans in to give him a soft, tender kiss that he hopes contains a promise of _more, later._   Sherlock sighs and lets his head drop onto his pillow.

 

John carefully extricates himself from Sherlock’s embrace as he explains that he’s just going to change into his pyjama bottoms, he’ll be right back at Sherlock’s side in just a few moments.  Sherlock nods his understanding and lets him go.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

Morning light filters into the room as Sherlock traces paths across John’s forehead with his finger.  John scrunches up his face and opens his eyes, blinking owlishly at Sherlock.  Sherlock’s heart constricts.

 

 

“John,” he says brokenly.

 

 

Concern settles on John’s features.  “Something wrong, Sherlock?” he asks.

 

 

Sherlock responds by leaning in and placing his lips on John’s.  John opens his mouth to him, granting him complete access.   They kiss and kiss and kiss, languid and tender and unhurried.  Sherlock tries to pour everything he’s feeling into it, substitutes these physical acts of affection for the words he can’t say right now, words like _want_ and _beautiful_ and _love._ He clings to John as a drowning man would to a lifeline.  

 

He lets out a small moan as John's hand travels down his side, skirting the edge of tickling but staying in the realm of arousing.  He's never felt sensations like this before, has never allowed himself the indulgence.  He senses John's breath quickening, his heartbeat thudding in time with Sherlock's own.  Sherlock tilts his head to give John's lips better access to his neck, and is rewarded with soft, butter-fly kisses to his jaw and throat.  He allows his eyes to flutter shut as he gently cups the back of John's head.  He's not at all sure where to put his other hand, and for a moment hovers uncertainly over John's shoulder blade, just over the exit wound of his scar.  Would it be _not good_ to touch it?  To trace it with his fingertips, a tangible reassurance and reminder of John's survival and his presence here, now?  He hesitates for just a moment before placing his palm flat on the raised tissue.  He feels John tense, just a bit, before sighing into Sherlock's mouth and relaxing.  Not painful, then, just... unexpected.  Sherlock smiles.

 

His attention is diverted soon enough by John's tongue in his ear. The sudden wetness startles him, and he hisses as an unfamiliar sensation settles in his groin.  An unwanted thought enters unbidden into his awareness, a memory of a taunt thrown out in jest and yet cutting like a knife ("Sex doesn't alarm me"... "How would you know"), and he involuntarily tenses.  John pulls back.

 

"Sherlock?" His eyes are wide and concerned, pupils blown large by desire.  An unnameable feeling unfurls in Sherlock's chest, loosening all the tension and anxiety until all he feels is ... cherished.  Wanted. Loved. 

 

Mycroft's cruelty fades to nothingness.

 

He swallows.  "I've never done this before," he whispers.

 

John nods, as if he expected this.  He starts to pull away, and Sherlock can't bear it, won't stand for it.  He grabs John's arms in panic.

 

"No!  Don't leave, please!  I want this, I just.... I wanted you to … to know what you were getting into.”

 

John’s eyes soften and crinkle at the corners.  “I won’t leave.  If you’re sure this is what you want.”

 

Sherlock reaches up and traces a finger along John’s right eyebrow and down his cheek.  “It’s what I want,” he replies as his voice drops in register.

 

John shivers, then swiftly ducks his head and captures Sherlock’s lips, gently coaxing them open with the tip of his tongue.  Sherlock obliges by parting them slightly and allowing John entry.  His legs fall open and John settles between them, tracing his finger along the edges of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms.  Sherlock gives a little hum of assent, and his hand slides inside them to cup Sherlock’s backside.  Sherlock’s breath hitches as John ghosts his hand across Sherlock’s buttocks, giving him feather-light, teasing touches, fingers tracing circles around his cheeks.  Sherlock presses himself closer, wrapping John more securely in his arms.

 

“More, John… more, John, _please,”_ he whispers, breath tickling John’s ear.  John obliges by moving his hand from Sherlock’s arse to the front of his crotch.  He takes Sherlock in hand and strokes him firmly while peppering kisses on his face, along his throat and down his bare chest.  Sherlock clings to him, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

 

 

“Oh, John, yes, that feels – that feels  - like…“ Sherlock’s eyes fly open and his body goes rigid in John’s arms.  His grip on John’s hair tightens and he shudders as he chants, “Please, oh, god, oh _god_ , John, _Johhhnnn…._ ”

 

 

Pleasure surges through him as he rides the wave of his orgasm.  John strokes him through it, ever the considerate one, until Sherlock goes boneless beneath him.  He attempts to return the favour, but his rapidly descending fatigue proves too much for him.    He growls in frustration, but John just chuckles and plants a reassuring kiss on the corner of his mouth.

 

 

“It’s okay,” John whispers, breath hitching as he thrusts against Sherlock.  “I can take care of it this way.”  John tucks his face into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock tightens his embrace as John’s rocking becomes increasingly more erratic.  John exhales little puffs of air that tickle Sherlock’s throat, making him shiver with a vicarious thrill.

 

 

“Sher – Sherlock… oh my god you feel so good…. You’re so good – _ooohhh…..”_

 

 

John stills, and sudden warmth blooms against Sherlock’s leg through the thin fabric of his pyjamas.  It’s not exactly unpleasant, but it feels a bit odd.  He fidgets while he waits for John to get his breath back, eager to get into a more comfortable position.

 

 

 

 

When John finally comes back to himself, Sherlock nudges him so that they’re lying side by side.  John eyes slowly blink open, and their gazes lock.  John smiles.  His eyes glint with mischief as he says, “Don’t worry.  First times are always rubbish.  Slow and romantic is usually reserved for second and third times.” 

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes remain focussed on John’s face, and he doesn’t return the smile.  John’s expression wavers, and Sherlock knows exactly what he’s thinking.

 

 

“No, John,” Sherlock says as he takes his hand and twines their fingers together.  “No regrets.  I promise this isn’t a one-off.  I intend to treasure all my remaining moments with you, for however long they last.” His gaze softens as he presses a kiss on John’s palm.

 

 

“Sherlock? You – Are  you – You do know that I’m not going to leave, right?  I mean, I’m not going anywhere.  Even if this new thing -  I’m not going to leave.  You’re my best friend.  This is a life-long partnership. You’ll always have me, I promise.”

 

 

Sherlock gives a tremulous smile as he smooths John’s hair back from his forehead.  Raw affection colours his voice as he responds.  “Yes, John.  For as long as we both draw breath.”

***

 

 

As soon as he and John return from Baskerville, Sherlock seeks out their landlady and profusely apologises for the manner in which he had informed her of Mr Chatterjee’s married state.  Loving surrogate mother that she is, she waves it aside in an unconcerned manner.  She tells him that she was actually grateful to him for that, the same way she had come to be grateful for his deductions of her husband’s crimes.  She gives him a motherly hug, a peck on the cheek, and sends him back up to his waiting flatmate.

 

 ***

 

 

The months that follow are the best of Sherlock’s life.  Now that he’s decided to stop fighting fate, to just let it happen, he’s more relaxed and able to concentrate on living in the moment without worrying about the future.  The retrieval of the Reichenbach painting makes him a hero; his picture is plastered all over the papers, and the money starts pouring in.  The cases start coming in fast and furious, which means Sherlock is busy, which means he is also happy.  

 

 

In the midst of all the work, he and John grow ever closer.  He’s never been in a romantic relationship before; it’s all so different from what he’s used to, and he gleefully catalogues all of the new experiences as if they are particularly exotic deep-sea specimens never before seen by man.  All the new data streaming into his brain keeps him so engrossed that he has no time to fret about death dates and looming loss.

 

 

 

The best of these halcyon days (calm only in the sense that their lives have been threatened just once) occurs on John’s birthday, July 7.   The previous year the date had come and gone without Sherlock ever being aware of it.  This year, Sherlock takes matters into his own hands to give John the best birthday of his life.  This is the last one they’ll be spending together, after all, so it has to be memorable.  And it’s John’s fortieth; it needs to be special.

 

Sherlock makes a reservation for Angelo’s banquet room, a space in the back of his restaurant reserved for private parties.  It contains a large table able to seat fourteen people, and it contains space enough to accommodate a string quartet.  Sherlock hires three of his Homeless Network who regularly perform on the streets of London.  These are not mere amateurs; they had been productive members of society and successful members of the London Symphony until circumstances had stolen their futures.  Sherlock himself will be the second violin.

 

Sherlock invites everyone who is in their inner circle:  Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mike, Harry, Bill, Henry Knight, Billy and Gary from Cross Keys, even Donovan, Anderson and Mycroft to make it an even fourteen.  Everyone, surprisingly, is able to come.  Not so surprisingly, everyone is eager to.  Everyone loves John.

 

He wants it to be a surprise, so he lets John plan his own pub quiz night with Lestrade, Stamford and Bill (who all, of course, are in on the surprise) as long as he’s allowed to take John out to dinner beforehand.  “Our first proper date as an actual couple,” Sherlock manages before realising what he’s just assumed.

 

He and John haven’t yet discussed this.  The only thing they’ve talked about regarding their relationship is agreeing to exclusivity.  They haven’t talked about going public, or who they wanted to reveal themselves to at this point.  It’s not that they necessarily want to keep it a secret.  They just want to keep things as uncomplicated as possible.  They’re professional colleagues, and they don’t want knowledge of their personal lives to taint their working relationships with Scotland Yard or with potential clients.  They don’t want to feed into anyone’s preconceived assumptions.

 

And then there are enemies they both have made who would love to take advantage of who they are to each other, not the least of which is Moriarty.  Up to this point, there has been a tacit agreement to keep things under the radar, just to play it safe.  They haven’t gone out of their way to hide things; in fact, they’re both pretty sure Mrs Hudson already knows.  But they haven’t gone out of their way to announce anything, either.

 

 

John gives Sherlock a warm smile as he reaches for his hand.  He peppers Sherlock’s knuckles with kisses.  “Of course it can be a proper date,” John says softly.  “Angelo already assumes we’re a couple, so it’ll be business as usual.”

 

Something like relief settles in Sherlock’s belly, although there seems to be equal amounts of disappointment.  He wants to announce their relationship, to declare it in no uncertain terms, so that everyone will know that there was a time when Sherlock Holmes was loved by someone as good and true as Dr John Watson.  But he also knows this is a big concession for John, as someone who had previously clung to his heterosexuality with vehemence.  He is grateful for what he has been given.

 

In fact, he’s so grateful that he attacks John’s mouth with gusto.  They end up spending the next few hours horizontal on Sherlock’s bed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_July 7, 2012_ **

 

 

 

 

 

The evening of John’s party finally arrives, and Sherlock’s stomach is doing strange fluttery things that it’s never done before.  What if John doesn’t like his surprise? What if he was looking forward to it just being the two of them?  What if he’s not in the mood for spending time with a large group of people?  What if he’s embarrassed by being serenaded by Sherlock and his Irregulars?  What if –

 

But then Angelo ushers them into the back room, and John’s reaction is everything Sherlock could have hoped for.  He cherishes the expression on his friend’s face as a chorus of “Happy Birthday!” rings out.  John’s stunned look almost immediately dissolves into the most beatific smile Sherlock’s ever seen.  He turns to Sherlock, and for a moment it looks like he might lean in and place a kiss on his lips.  Instead he claps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gives it a tender squeeze.  “Thanks, mate,” he says, grinning brightly.  He makes his way towards his friends, followed by a satisfied consulting detective.

 

 

Two seats next to each other have been set aside for John and Sherlock, and they squeeze themselves into place.  Every single invited person has shown up, and Sherlock’s chest swells with pride at the popularity of his partner.  He’s positive that if it had been his own birthday, not even half of the people here would have shown up.  The idea doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

 

Amazingly, Sherlock doesn’t find the whole thing tedious.  He was afraid that he might, but watching John enjoy himself during this occasion fills him with a warm feeling of accomplishment.  A fortieth birthday is an important milestone.  Irrational as it is, given Sherlock’s foreknowledge, he is grateful that John has reached it, despite all the incidents in his life that have striven to prevent it.

 

 

Throughout the meal, John leans incrementally closer and closer to Sherlock.  About halfway through, he carelessly drapes his hand across the back of Sherlock’s chair, as if such easy intimacy were the norm for them.  He doesn’t actually touch Sherlock’s shoulders, but the implication is clear to anyone who is observing carefully.  Sherlock isn’t sure anyone is, until he catches Mycroft’s steady gaze and recognises the furrow of concern on his forehead.  Sherlock raises an eyebrow in a silent challenge.  Mycroft gives him a small, disapproving shake of his head before he drops his eyes to his plate and resumes eating.

 

 

Sherlock swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.  Maybe this is a mistake.  Maybe he’s being selfish by indulging in this whirlwind fling, encouraging the pretence of a life-long commitment that will all too soon leave one of them alone and heartbroken.  Would this constitute an act of betrayal on Sherlock’s part?  He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers and tries to collect himself.

 

 

“So what’s it feel like, John?” Lestrade’s booming voice breaks Sherlock’s train of thought, providing a welcome distraction.  The detective inspector stabs his filet mignon with his knife as he continues.  “Turning forty?  God, it feels like a lifetime ago for me.  Almost a decade!”

 

 

“Feels okay,” John says after taking a swallow of beer.  “It’s not really what I ever imagined, but that’s a good thing, actually.  Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans, right?”

 

 

“Disappointed that you haven’t found that special girl yet, John?” Mike pipes up.  “You aren’t getting any younger, after all.”  Stamford is a very genial sort, and also generally tactful.  When he’s had a few beers in him, though, his brain to mouth filter starts to malfunction, although never in a cruel way.

 

It’s almost imperceptible, but John does flush, and his left hand trembles slightly.  “No,” he says, “Not disappointed at all.  What girl would put up with my mad lifestyle?”

 

Mike snorts.  “You mean ‘ _our’_ lifestyle, right?  You and Sherlock’s?  I’m not surprised you haven’t been able to keep a girlfriend.  They probably all thought that the two of you were an item.”

 

John gives Mike a serene look.  “Well, they were wrong,” he says.

 

Sherlock’s heart clenches and sinks at the same time.  John removes his arm from the back of Sherlock’s chair, and he feels vaguely sick.  This is it; this is when John decides that he really doesn’t want to be in a relationship with Sherlock, that his experiment with bisexuality hasn’t lived up to his expectations.

 

 

Then John’s hand is on his and squeezing gently until Sherlock turns his hand around so that their fingers twine together.

 

“We weren’t involved _then_ ,” John proclaims, clasping Sherlock’s hand tightly.  Sherlock’s cheeks grow warm, but not from embarrassment.  It’s because his muscles are stretching so due to his wide smile.

 

Awkward silence greets this announcement.  Then Molly starts giggling.  “Good one, John,” she snorts in amusement.  “April 1st was months ago.  Taking the piss this early in the evening?”

 

 

John cocks an eyebrow at her but he doesn’t say a word in response.  He doesn’t have to.  His hand remains firmly in Sherlock’s.  Stamford grins and trades a knowing glance with Murray.  Lestrade shifts in his seat.  Mycroft clears his throat.  Several seconds pass before John finally says, “Let’s just get back to the party, shall we?  I intend to make memories tonight to last a lifetime.  How about another round for everyone?  This one’s on me.”

 

Sherlock’s heart soars.  Sod Mycroft and his unsolicited concern.  Sherlock, _and John,_ will revel in this for as long as they are allowed.  Experiencing this joy for a brief time is better than never experiencing it at all.  If that makes him selfish, then so be it.  He’s never claimed to be otherwise.

 

 

***

 

 

Soon after John’s pronouncement, Angelo walks in and hands Sherlock his violin case.  John gives him an amused look.  “Planning on serenading me, are you?” he asks teasingly.

 

“Me, Wiggins, Miller and Lloyd, yes,” Sherlock replies.

 

John gives him a blank look.  “Who?” he asks.

 

Sherlock nods towards the door, where two young men and a teenaged girl are trailing in with their instruments and folding chairs.  They quickly set themselves up in the corner and expertly set to tuning their instruments.  Wiggins is the girl with a violin, Miller has a viola and Lloyd is playing the cello.  Sherlock gets up, grabs his chair with his free hand and makes his way over to them.  The three performers give him a respectful nod, but they don’t interrupt their preparations.  Sherlock sits down, unclasps his case and starts his own ritual.

 

He glances up during the warm up, and almost falters during his scales when he notices the brightness in John’s eyes.   Sherlock swallows.  He hadn’t meant to overwhelm his partner.  Perhaps this concert was a bit over the top?  He’s not sure; this sort of thing really isn’t his area, and he feels a bit out of his depth, trying to play the role of significant other to the man of the hour.  He doesn’t really know what’s appropriate and what’s not, he has no frame of reference.  Perhaps he’s embarrassed John?

 

 

All his fears dissipate like wisps of mist on the wind when the four of them start to play.  There are no music stands or sheet music; they all know this piece by heart.  They have been practicing in 221C on days John worked at the surgery.  It’s a number that Sherlock has composed himself.  This has been in the works for weeks now, so it’s a flawless work of art that weaves its notes into the air surrounding their audience.  The music insinuates itself into their minds and hearts as they sit, rapt and spellbound.  John’s reaction is the only one that matters, so when Sherlock glances in his direction and sees his head tilted upwards with his eyes closed and a rapturous smile on his face, he knows that this idea has been a resounding success.

 

 

That night, when they’ve let themselves into 221B and they’re finally alone, John melts into Sherlock’s embrace.  Their kisses are slow and languid, until they pull apart and adjourn to Sherlock’s room.  They undress each other reverently.  When they’re finally completely naked, John rests his palm on Sherlock’s cheek and whispers, “Do you know that I love you?”

 

 

Sherlock smiles and nods. “Yes,” he says, pulling John down onto the bed with him.

 

 

Their lovemaking is tender and unhurried, an echo of the perfect evening they have just shared.  Afterwards, as they lie next to each other on the verge of sleep, Sherlock thinks that he would be a very happy man if he were allowed to continue on like this for many years to come.

 

 

Two months later, Moriarty breaks into the Tower of London.  Like a bucket of ice water in the face, Sherlock is rudely reminded that the clock is ticking, and that time is running out.

 

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's artwork for this chapter as well!! A lovely scene from John's birthday party, once again commissioned for me by the generous prettybirdy979. The artist is Oochami, and you can find her work [here.](http://oochami.tumblr.com/post/54978807461/commission-for-prettybirdy979-john-sitting-down) Heartfelt thanks to both of you!


	6. Before my number’s up I'm gonna fill my cup, I'm gonna live live live until I die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter. I hope that is doesn't disappoint *bites nails*. Since the original plan of having the entire story posted before Christmas isn't going to happen, the final chapter will be delayed until the weekend. If you think you can survive a few days before the resolution, then my advice to you is.... proceed with caution.  
>  
> 
> Quotes from The Reichenbach Fall are taken from Ariane_Devere's transcript [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html).

****

****

**_September, 2012_ **

 

 

Sherlock blinks in confusion.  “Why are you upset?”

 

John’s arms are crossed, feet planted in a military stance, jaw lifted in classic John Watson stubbornness.  “Since when do you just drop everything to announce we’re taking a holiday?  Since when do you go on _holiday?_ I know you’re all keyed up about Moriarty, don’t you think it’ll be better if this is resolved first and _then_ go?  You’re not going to be able to relax until it is.”

 

Sherlock shrugs.  “The trial isn’t due to start for another two weeks.   I thought it might be nice – you mentioned once you’d never been to Sussex.  It’s the perfect opportunity to get away from London, before the media circus explodes.  I just want to make the most of our time together while we can, that’s all.”

 

John shakes his head.  He looks both disappointed and annoyed.  “When will you get it through your thick skull that I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock?  What’s it going to take to convince you that I’m not going to leave?  Our relationship doesn’t have an expiration date, you know.  It’s going to still be here next week, next month…..next year.  We have all the time in the world –“

 

“Oh, don’t be such an idiot, John!” Sudden anger courses through Sherlock’s veins, hot and unrestrained.  “You’re aware of the lives we lead, either one of us could be gone tomorrow.  You should know that better than most.  When your number’s up, it’s _up,_ and there’s not a thing that can be done to change it.  So don’t stand there and _tell_ me that you’re never going to leave, or that _I’m_ never going to leave, because we both know that you can’t guarantee that.”

John’s jaw clenches.  “That’s awfully fatalistic of you, don’t you think?”

 

“It’s _realistic_ of me.”

 

John shakes his head again, sadly this time.  “You should try having some faith, Sherlock, for once.”

 

Sherlock snorts in disbelief, but John ploughs on.  “Look, Sherlock – we both know how important it is to lay this whole Moriarty thing to rest, once and for all.  Once he’s taken care of, then we can take the time to properly enjoy an extended break.  Until then, he needs all your focus.  Can we agree on that, please?”

 

John’s expression is earnest, his eyes searching his own in a silent plea.  Sherlock’s shoulders slump, his demeanour resigned.  He never could resist that _look._ He can only hope for the best possible outcome; that the trial will end with Moriarty still safely behind bars, at least temporarily, and that Sherlock and John will be afforded some sort of reprieve for a brief while.

 

Against his better judgement, Sherlock nods.  The relaxing of John’s tension is palpable, and that alone almost makes Sherlock’s unease worth it.

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

 

Sherlock had desperately wanted to reveal himself to John, to begin their new relationship by having no secrets between them, no lies of omission about himself so that John would no longer have inaccurate misconceptions about him.  That desire only intensifies as things start to come to a head.  He wouldn’t necessarily have to reveal specific death dates, just the fact that he has one and that he can see them on everyone else as well. 

 

But remembering John’s reaction when he admitted seeing the hound at Baskerville puts the kibosh on that idea. The doctor is a man of science, like Sherlock.  He would throw Sherlock’s own aphorism about eliminating the impossible back in his face by claiming that such things _were_ , actually, impossible.  He’d more than likely attribute his claims to lingering traces of drugs in his system, or to long-term effects that Sherlock had already assured him didn’t exist.

 

 

What’s ironic is that the ability itself is not supernatural; it adheres to rules and laws just like any scientific phenomenon.  Laws that are just as unbreakable as the laws of physics.  The red numbers appear, and everyone dies on exactly the date foreseen.  Always.  No exceptions, ever.  If there were, he knows there would be a logical explanation for it.  It would make sense.  Just like natural law. 

 

 

John, however, would see it as some sort of ‘magical’ delusion; without the lifetime of exposure Sherlock has had to acclimatise to it, he would not be convinced.  He would demand some kind of proof.  Normally, Sherlock would respect that, even encourage it.

 

  

 

That doesn’t stop his longing to break his decades-long silence with someone he trusts implicitly, and there aren’t many people who fall into that category.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

It’s been a week since the end of the trial and Moriarty’s appearance at the flat.  All of Jim’s cryptic remarks about solving their ‘final problem’ has him on edge; his mind is circling around the beginnings of an idea that seems impossible and yet won’t let him rest.   His body won’t keep still either, so Sherlock makes his way down to 221A.  There’s no one he trusts more than his landlady, besides John of course, but since he can’t talk to his friend, he’ll take the next best thing.

 

 

Mrs Hudson is seventy-one years old and still has twenty-three more left.   Because of her longevity, Sherlock had allowed himself to get attached beyond the boundaries of the client-consultant relationship.  If there’s anyone he might be able to confide in, it would be her.  She’s not – flighty, exactly, but she does have very fanciful and romantic notions about the way life works.  She reads the horoscope faithfully every morning, and she’s addicted to one of those horrible psychic talk shows that broadcasts every Thursday afternoon.  She won’t dismiss him out of hand, the way most people would.

 

 

“Sherlock!” she exclaims when she sees him on her doorstep.  “What a nice surprise!”  She wraps him in a hug that takes his breath away.  She pulls back and pats his cheek, giving him a knowing smile.  “How’s John?  And where is he, by the way?  I expected you both to come together when you make your announcement.  Well, _official_ announcement, anyway.  You haven’t really been doing much to keep it a secret, have you?  Especially after John’s birthday party.”  She puts her finger on the side of her nose and winks.

 

 

Sherlock’s cheeks heat up and the tips of his ears burn.  He gives a small shrug as he follows her into the flat.  “I think he’s out at the pub with Mike Stamford at the moment.”

 

“I’m so glad you two sorted yourselves out.  You deserve some happiness, Sherlock; it’s not good for a man your age to be all alone.”

 

 

Sherlock swallows.  “Mrs Hudson… there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson sit in the lounge, Sherlock on the sofa and his landlady in her armchair.  Sherlock has a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other; Mrs Hudson is sure that it’s only so that his hands have something to do besides fidget and drum on the armrest.  When he finally opens his mouth, what comes out is the strangest story she has ever heard.  He goes into great detail about everything.  Well, everything except her own death date, which she adamantly insists on remaining blissfully ignorant of.  She listens attentively, posture upright, legs crossed and hand clasped on her knee.  The longer Sherlock talks, the sadder his expression becomes.  His flawless narrative only hitches once, and that’s when he describes Moriarty’s numbers.  She brings a hand up to her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut.  The tears start flowing when Sherlock tells her how he and John had finally got together, and how he’s the happiest he ever remembers being.

 

 

When he finishes, Martha Hudson gets up from her chair and makes her way over to the only son she’s ever known.  She’s not sure if the sorrow she feels is more for herself, or for the broken man in front of her.  The old adage of sorrow shared is sorrow halved is not proving true in this case.  The joy that had been doubled when she had realised what was going on between her two tenants has dwindled down to nothing in the face of this.  If she loses one of them, she’ll lose the other as well, and she doesn’t know how she’ll be able to bear it.

 

 

She kneels down and gathers her boy in her arms, giving in to her pre-emptive grief while he succumbs to the agony of hopelessness.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Stupid, intrusive, controlling Mycroft has obviously had a heart to heart with John.  His flatmate absolutely refuses to let them leave London (and the safety of his brother’s ‘protection’, something Sherlock’s not supposed to know about) while Moriarty remains at large.  Sherlock wants to shout _It won’t make any difference what we do or where we go._

 

 

“Moriarty will bide his time, John.  He’s going to lie low for a while before his final strike.  I have an idea as to his timetable –“

 

 

“Nope.  Sorry Sherlock, but even you can’t predict the future.  We’re going to play it safe, and that’s final.”

 

 

 

Sherlock argues until he’s blue in the face, but the soldier is unmoved.  He throws his arms up in frustration, grabs his coat and stalks out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. 

 

 

He walks and walks, oblivious to his surroundings, thoughts going around in circles and digging an obsessive groove into his brain that he’s helpless to escape.  Thankfully his phone rescues him from his own mind with the familiar tone of Lestrade’s text alert.

 

 

_Got a case for you.  Interested?_

 

 

Sherlock is so desperate for any kind of distraction that he doesn’t even ask for details.  He just replies with a terse _On my way_ before quickening his gait towards the street where he flags a cab to take him to NSY.

 

 

Once he gets there, he almost changes his mind.  The Inspector looks like death warmed over.  His grey hair is dishevelled, his eyes have large purple bruises beneath them and he radiates desperation born of too many sleepless nights.  Lestrade gives him a grim nod before handing him a picture of a ten-year old boy. 

 

 

“I know you don’t like missing person’s cases, but this one’s the DCI’s nephew and I’m at my wit’s end. We need your help, Sherlock…. please.”

 

 

 

Sherlock accepts the photo, but internally he dithers.  Pictures and video don’t capture a person’s numbers, so they’re no help to him in that regard.  This isn’t like the case with Jesse Wilcox, when he knew for certain she would survive.  There’s no way to gauge the chance of success here, no way to know if this will just be a colossal waste of his time. 

 

 

Then again… what if it’s only the people he’s met who have an unchangeable destiny?  If he hasn’t seen a person’s date - does that mean they don’t actually _have_ one?  An example of the observer’s paradox?

 

 

It doesn’t really matter, at this point.  Sherlock could use this to force his mind out of the endless feedback loop it seems to be stuck in

 

 

“I’ll agree to help you out…. on one condition.”

 

 

Lestrade exhales in relief.  “Name it.”

 

 

 

“No Anderson on the next four cases you bring my way.”

 

 

_“Sherlock…_ ”

 

 

“No Anderson.  He’s not the only forensic investigator.”

 

 

Lestrade scowls at him.  “ _Fine._ I’ll bring Hopkins in if I need to.”

 

 

“Fine.  Lead the way, Inspector.”

 

 

 

Lestrade gives him access to the CCTV footage chronicling the last time the boy was seen before he disappeared.   That and the picture are all that Sherlock has to go on, and it should have been enough.  But after a week of intensive deductive work and false leads, the boy is still missing.  Sherlock, John and Lestrade’s entire team have been running on no sleep and no sustenance save coffee for three days straight, and it’s beginning to wear on everybody, save Sherlock.  He’s in his element, of course.  Not even John can work up the energy to chastise him for displaying more excitement than is decent, not when a satisfactory conclusion depends on the energetic workings of his great brain.

 

 

It’s the most engaging puzzle that’s come along in months, and it keeps him suitably occupied until things take a tragic turn.

 

 

 

The case does _not_ have a satisfactory conclusion.  The boy is found alive, yes, but he’s in the arms of his stepfather who has a gun pressed against his temple.  But that’s not the worst of it.  The worst of it is that, when Sherlock finally claps eyes on little Tommy Winchester, the numbers roiling off of him spell out today’s date.

 

 

 It takes everything in the detective to not let his arms fall limply at his sides in defeat, but he can’t do that.  He needs to keep up appearances so that John has no reason to look at him with disappointment shining in his eyes.   

 

 

 

The step-father, David Fletcher, an investment banker who recently lost his entire life’s savings, is surrounded by ten police officers, three of them members of the armed response unit.  There’s no way he’s getting out of this, although he _will_ be getting out of it alive, Sherlock notes.

 

 

 

Tommy’s mother has been brought along, against Lestrade’s express wishes but at the Chief Superintendent’s behest.  Gregson (the idiot) believes this manoeuvre holds the best chance of success.   Success of what, Sherlock isn’t sure.

 

 

 

Everything goes to hell when Fletcher unexpectedly shoves Tommy away from him and swings his gun in the boy’s direction.  The mother screams, “NO!  NOT MY BABY!”  She wrenches herself out of Gregson’s retraining hold and throws herself between her son and her ex-husband.  The bullet meant for Tommy embeds itself in her brainstem, killing her instantly.

 

In the ensuing chaos Lestrade subdues Fletcher, John gathers Tommy into his arms to lead him away from the scene, and Sherlock checks on Evelyn Fletcher’s status as he calls for an ambulance.  Too late, it turns out; her lifeless eyes stare back at Sherlock accusingly.

 

 

 

Sherlock ends the call and steps back from the body, his eyes never leaving her face.  He thinks what he’s feeling might be shock, but he’s not sure, since he’s only felt anything like this once before.

 

 

 

Evelyn was not supposed to die today; her numbers had read **12-05-2050**.  And yet, here she lies at Sherlock’s feet, undeniably dead.  An unsettling feeling of déjà vu descends on Sherlock, but he impatiently pushes it aside in favour of a more exciting emotion.

 

Tommy, who _was_ supposed to die today, is still very much alive.  Sherlock whirls around and strides over to where John is shielding the child in his arms.  Sherlock grabs Tommy by the shoulder and twists him around so that he can get a good look at his forehead –

 

 

“Sherlock!” John hisses. “ _Timing!”_

Sherlock releases the boy, hands raised in surrender.  “Of course.  I’ll get a statement later.”

 

 

Tommy is taken to the station, sat down in Lestrade’s office and wrapped in a shock blanket.  Midnight comes and goes, a new date begins - and he is still alive.

 

 

Even more incredible – the fact that the new numbers Sherlock saw on Tommy were the same ones his mother sported just a few hours earlier.

 

 

 

Well.  Isn’t this interesting.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**_November 30, 2012_ **

 

 

They’ve just left Kitty Riley’s flat after their unfortunate run-in with Moriarty.  John looks on as Sherlock paces back and forth, hands clutching his hair and his mind running in frantic, fruitless circles.  There must be something that he can do to stop this madness from happening, he just doesn’t see how.  There’s only been one exception to the rule, and that had come at great cost.  There’s no one he could possibly ask to…

 

 

Sherlock stops in midstride and mid-rant as the realisation hits him.  Moriarty’s endgame clicks into place, and he knows what his enemy’s plan is. 

 

 

Perfect.  This is _perfect._ Moriarty has unintentionally set him up with an opportunity to solve his problem. 

 

 

His mind flies back to several hours previous, when he was sitting in the lab and unknowingly letting a look of sadness cross his face.

 

 

“ _What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need,_

_anything at all, you can have me.”_

_“What- what could I need from you?”_

_“Nothing. I dunno.”_

There’s something he can try.  It’s not guaranteed to work, but he has to attempt it, at least.  It’s going to _kill_ him to do it, but it’s better than the alternative.  John will not understand, but he’s not aware of what’s at stake, or how this will actually prevent his death.  John will come to terms, eventually; he’ll have to.

 

 

Sherlock swallows as he turns to John.

 

 

“There’s something I need to do.”

 

 

“What? Can I help?”

 

 

Sherlock shakes his head.  “No – I need to do this on my own.”

 

 

“Sherlock-“

 

“No.”  Sherlock steps towards John and takes his face in his hands.  “You need to trust me now.  Can you do that?”

 

The softness of John’s expression is _heart-breaking._ “I trust you with my life.  Always.”

 

 

Sherlock can’t stop a tortured look from crossing his face.  “There’s two things I need you to know, and to never forget.  One, I trust you with my life as well.  I always have, and I always will.  If something happens to me within the next few hours, you mustn’t blame yourself, because it will in _no way_ be your fault.  Tell me that you understand.”   

 

John draws a panicked breath.  “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re scaring me!  Tell me what’s happening.”

 

Sherlock grips both of John’s shoulders tightly.  “Promise me that you’ll never forget that.  Please!”

 

John rubs a hand over his face, weariness etching lines in his handsome face.  “Yes, of course I promise, Sherlock.  Whatever this is about..”

 

 

“The second thing I need you to know,” Sherlock interrupts, “is that I love you.  You need to hear it _now_ , because I don’t know what’s going to happen… tomorrow.  I need you to believe that.  Do you believe me?”

 

 

John swallows.  “Yes,” he whispers hoarsely, reaching up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek with the back of his knuckles.  “I love you, too.”

 

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and expels a shaky breath.  He pulls his friend to him and crushes him in a desperate embrace.  His arms reach inside John’s coat and encircle his body; John does the same to him.  They hold onto each other tightly for several minutes, heartbeats thudding against each other’s chests.   Sherlock revels in the warmth of John’s body as it counteracts the coldness in his own.  They pull back just enough to claim each other’s lips in a frantic expression of love and devotion.  The moist warmth of Sherlock’s mouth makes John whimper, and Sherlock files the sound away just in case… in case this doesn’t work.

 

 

Finally, they reluctantly break apart.  John searches Sherlock’s eyes for a hint of what he’s thinking and planning, but Sherlock doesn’t give him one.  He sighs as he steps away from the detective’s embrace.  He nods, and says, “Alright, then.  Go do what you need to do.   I have something to do as well.  We’ll meet up later.”

 

 

Sherlock gives a tight nod back.  “Thank you, John,” he says.  “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.  I’ll text you when I’m finished.”  Before he can be further distracted by longing and regret, he turns on his heel and strides down the pavement, wiping everything from his mind except for his intent to minimise the impending tragedy.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock sits on the floor of the laboratory in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, back pressed against the cabinet drawers and legs stretched out in front of him.  He absently squeezes a small rubber ball in his left hand.  His eyes keep straying to the inside of his right wrist.

 

 

 

He glances up at the digital clock on the far wall, and freezes.  He watches as the red digits click over.

 

 

** 11:59 **

 

 

** 12:00 **

His heart thuds in his chest, and the ball becomes slick and slippery with his perspiration.

 

 

The day he’s been dreading is finally here.  A hollow feeling settles in his stomach and forms into a cold ball of ice.  He reaches into his pocket, and texts the number that is first on his contact list. 

 

 

It’s time to set his plan in motion, and the first step is making sure his flatmate is exactly where he needs to be. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_ December 1, 2012 _ **

 

 

 

 

Sherlock lets John sleep.  It’s fine, his jittery nerves are soothed by his friend’s mere presence.  He’s mesmerised by the rise and fall of the doctor’s chest, by the peaceful look on his face as his light snores stir the laboratory notes he’s fallen asleep on.  Sherlock commits the scene to memory, and stores it away in the most secure chamber of his heart.

 

 

All too soon, the peaceful tableau is broken by the shrill ring of a phone.  The next phase of the plan is set in motion.

 

 

After John hangs up, he turns to Sherlock and tells him that Mrs Hudson has been shot.  Sherlock tries his best to act concerned and worried, even though 1) he knows Mrs Hudson won’t be dying today, and 2) it’s all a distraction set up by Sherlock to get John out of the way.

 

 

“Let’s go, Sherlock,” John begs.

 

 

Sherlock gives him a small shake of his head.  “I can’t, John,” he says gently.  “I’m a fugitive, I’ll be arrested the minute I set foot outside the hospital.  You go to her.  Someone needs to be with her.”

 

 

As expected, John shakes his head in response.  “I’m not leaving you alone, Sherlock, not while that maniac’s still out there.”

 

 

“Mrs Hudson needs you,” Sherlock replies firmly.  “I’ll be fine, I’ll figure something out while you’re gone.”  His gaze softens.  “Everything will be all right, John.  I promise.”

 

 

John strides over to where Sherlock sits and grabs him firmly by the back of the neck, pulling his head forward until their lips meet in a harsh, bruising kiss.  Sherlock wraps his arms around John and fists his hands in the fabric of his jumper. He desperately tries to hold onto his self-control as he feels his heart starting to fracture.  It feels as if jagged shards are piercing his chest and forcing the breath out of his lungs – a fitting metaphor for how his life may very well be forced out of his transport within the next few hours.

 

 

Because even if his plan works… if the events set in motion work their way to Sherlock’s desired outcome… it will make no difference for the two of them.  Either way, this is the last time Sherlock will experience the warmth of John’s body pressed to his, the last time he will experience the companionship that has become so important to him these past two years.

 

 

_At least John will live.  If it’s true that the numbers never lie, and a life is owed tomorrow, then at least it will be mine._

 

 

 

 

The thought elicits a soft whimper from him, which in turn causes John to break the kiss and rest their foreheads together.  John strokes his thumb across his cheek.  “I’ll see you in a few hours, yes?”

 

 

Sherlock nods, not trusting himself to speak.  John places a quick, chaste kiss on his lips before he pulls away and, without looking back, leaves Sherlock in the state he’s always been left in, time and time again.

 

 

Alone.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Ah, Sherlock,” Jim Moriarty says as Sherlock walks towards him.  “Here we are.  Finally.  I thought we’d never get here.  The climax, the finale.  Isn’t it all so exciting?”  His voice rises in pitch at the end, and he waggles his eyebrows.

 

Sherlock scowls as Moriarty walks towards him, hands thrust in his pockets and a maniacal grin on his face. “It’s just you and me now, Sherlock.  You, me and our problem.  Our final problem.  _Staying alive,”_ he shouts, making Sherlock jump.  He leers shark-like as he circles his nemesis.

 

“Have you come up with an elegant solution yet, Sherlock?  To our final problem?  I’ll bet you have.  I’ll bet you’ve come up with something really clever, haven’t you?  Of course you have.  Because I would have. And we’re just alike, you and I.  In more ways than you know.”

 

 

He leans in closer, his stale breath washing over Sherlock, and Sherlock makes a disgusted face.  “Do you want to know a secret?  Look.”  He extends his right wrist and pushes his sleeve back just enough for Sherlock to glimpse bright red numbers.

 

 

Sherlock reels back, momentarily shocked.  He reins it in quickly, at least internally.  He’s had his suspicions about this, shelved in the back of his mind, ever since Moriarty’s post-trial visit to the flat.  Brief hope flares in his chest.  Could Moriarty have discovered another way to -

 

Jim throws back his head and laughs, piercing and cruel.  The small ember dies a quick death.

 

 

“Yes.  I’m just like you.  Or you’re just like me.  Whichever you prefer.”  Moriarty leans forward and lowers his voice.  “I got mine by almost drowning in the neighbour’s swimming pool.  My therapist would probably say that’s why I chose a pool for my first murder.”  He cocks his head and grins.

 

 

“So how did you get yours?  Was it something exciting, or was it as pedestrian as _you_ turned out to be?”

 

 

Sherlock remains silent, his expression smooth and unperturbed.  His state of mind, however, belies his calm exterior.  The day he had received his own red numbers is a memory he’s tried very hard to delete, without success.  Sometimes he still dreams about the swarm of bees that attacked and very nearly killed him.  He’s harboured an irrational phobia ever since.

 

 

 

Moriarty smiles as he steps back.

 

 

 

 

“That pool is where you truly began, wasn’t it?  Little Carl Powers.  I created you, didn’t I?  Not only your detecting career, but your ‘sight’ as well.  Guess I got things backwards.  _You_ owe _me,_ for all that you are today.

 

 

“There is one difference between us, though.  I never bothered wondering whether or not the dates could be delayed.  I looked at it from a different angle.  I amused myself by seeing if I could come up with creative ways to actually _cause_ the deaths that were inevitable anyway.  Oh, and I came up with some brilliant ways, as I’m sure you’re aware of by now.  Carl Powers was always going to die that day; I just determined the manner of his death.  After that, I kept challenging myself to come up with bigger and better ideas, and I was never bored.”

 

 

Moriarty cocks his head.  “Ironic, no, that that’s exactly what everyone thinks _you’ve_ been doing?  When in reality, all you’ve done is waste time wallowing in all the angst of knowing what was going to happenbut not how to stop it _._   Disappointing, Sherlock; really.  How _ordinary_ of you.  You should have fought against that helplessness by _making_ things happen.”

 

 

His face lights up as if an intriguing thought just occurred to him.  “Like with Victor!  You should have been the one to think of lacing his food with peanut sauce.  Now _that_ would have been genius.  _That_ would have been something I could respect.”  Moriarty purses his lips in a mock pout.  “But no, that was left up to me instead.  You almost derailed things for me, though, by trying to play the hero.  I would have been quite cross with you if you had succeeded.  But things did work out in the end, didn’t they?  Turns out, you were just as complicit in his death as I was.  Thanks for that, by the way!” he chirps cheerily.

 

Murderous rage surges through Sherlock’s veins.  He closes his eyes and clenches his fists as he imagines throwing Moriarty from the rooftop and watching in satisfaction as his body smashes into the unforgiving pavement below.  He takes a deep breath and attempts to calm himself.  He must stick to the script to make sure everything happens the way he needs it to.  Losing control now won’t help anybody.

 

 

“What do you want?” he hisses, fixing Moriarty with the most thunderous expression he can drudge up.

 

 

“Oh, you know what I want,” Moriarty replies brightly.  “I want your reputation in tatters, and I want you to confirm for the world that you’re a fake by jumping to your death.”

 

 

 

Sherlock stares at him.  “Why would I do that?  And more to the point, why do you care, if you’re going to die anyway?  You won’t be around to gloat.”  Sherlock gestures at Moriarty’s bared wrist.

 

 

Moriarty shrugs.  “True, I _am_ going to die today.  There’s no point crying over spilt milk, though, is there?  No sense agonising over something that can’t be changed.  Life has been getting more and more tedious lately anyway; I really don’t care to stick around any longer.  But instead of waiting for it to happen, possibly in some horribly pedestrian way, I decided to set the terms.  I am known for being dramatic, I figured why not give the event a bit of flair.  Go out with a bang, so to speak.”  He winks.  “But then again, perhaps I wouldn’t be so eager to embrace my mortality if I had someone to _love.”_

Moriarty spits out the last word as if it disgusts him, and that does it.  Sherlock sees red, and all he wants to do is launch himself at Jim, wrap his hands around his hateful neck and squeeze the life right out of him.  He wants to scratch his eyes out until they’re hanging from his head in bloody strips.  How _dare_ he talk about John as if he’s a dirty secret.  Sherlock wants to kill him.

 

He grabs Moriarty by the lapels and swings him to the edge of the rooftop.  He shakes him viciously as he spits out, “You’re insane!”

 

“You’re just getting that now?” Moriarty squeals with glee.  “Really, Sherlock, let me give my grand reveal.  You know how important that is for geniuses like us.” He smiles, all teeth.

 

Sherlock releases Moriarty in resignation.  He steps back in defeat, and inclines his head, prompting Moriarty to continue.

 

“That’s better.”  Moriarty’s hands slide down the front of his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles.  “Now, what was I saying?  Oh, yes.  Right.  About setting the stage for my – _our_ -  death.”  Jim clasps his hands behind his back and paces.  “When I first heard about you, it was love at first… sound.  You were on the radio, explaining your theory that Carl Powers wasn’t an accident, but was murdered.  I was instantly smitten.  All right, I was obsessed.  I kept tabs on you throughout the years, never letting you go off my radar.  Even when you started to actively interfere in my business, I still thought of you as a kindred spirit.

 

“Then I actually met you in person, and I _knew_ that we had a destiny.  After our showdown at the pool, I started trying to figure out a way that you and I could grab headlines together, be remembered in the same breath as the other.  I thought – wouldn’t it be _romantic_ if we went down in some splashy standoff, like a murder-suicide scenario?  Yes, that would be delicious.  The only _problem,_ of course, was that I had to figure out a way to align everything properly.  To trick the universe into letting it happen, as it were.  It was a new challenge, a new puzzle.  And I figured it out, obviously.

 

 

“Seeing Watson and you together, I knew that I had found your weakness.  And that’s exactly how I’m going to beat you.  Your number’s up, Sherlock Holmes.  It’s time for sacrifice.  That’s _another_ way I’m cleverer than you.  I figured out how to _hasten_ someone’s demise rather than delay it.

 

 

“You see… I’m really rather jealous of you and your doctor, Sherlock.  I’ve never had anyone in my life who’d be willing to _die_ for me.  But you do, don’t you?  Your precious John would be _eager_ to throw his life away to save yours, wouldn’t he?  Oh dear… I hope your plan goes into effect before he gets here and ruins it all for you.”

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen in alarm.  Moriarty lets out a high-pitched giggle.   

 

 

 

“Isn’t it wonderful, that finally, after all this time, you’re being offered the chance to actually and truly save someone?  The question is, will you take it?  Are you prepared to do what it takes to accomplish that?  To do what ordinary people won’t do?

 

 

“One of you is going to die today - you or John Watson.  And it’s all up to you.  It’s your choice entirely.  Either you step off that ledge within the next five minutes, or a sniper will put a bullet in your lovely boyfriend’s head.”

 

 

Moriarty beams at him as if what he’s said should make Sherlock happy.  “So what is it going to be, hmm?  Oh my, decisions, decisions.  Aren’t they a bitch?  Good thing I’ve already made mine.”

 

 

With that, Moriarty pulls out a gun, sticks it in his mouth and pulls the trigger.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock situates himself on the ledge, careful to make sure he doesn’t slip prematurely.  Timing is the key to everything, and he’s not about to make any mistakes this late in the game.  He raises his head, momentarily distracted by the sound of a cab pulling up, and his blood freezes.

 

 

_John._ No, no, he’s _not supposed to be here!_ Sherlock’s mind races, trying to create a solution to this unexpected and unwanted event.  John’s supposed to be safely removed from any temptation to play the hero.  John cannot be allowed to give up his life for Sherlock; the very _opposite_ is meant to be.  That’s what it’s all _for,_ to make sure John lives.  That’s what the numbers mean.  That’s Sherlock’s _destiny._

_Shit_ , he swears under his breath when he realises that he’s going to be forced to cause John even more pain than originally intended.  But there’s no help for it now.  Their final conversation is going to be chock-full of lies and hurtful words, and it is not the way Sherlock had wanted to say good-bye.    Now, the words he uses are going to cut like a knife and shred John’s very soul.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

“Good-bye, John.”

 

Sherlock throws down his phone.  He risks a quick glance at his wrist:  **25-01-2062** **.** He closes his eyes and accesses the memory of John’s number:  **01-12-2012** **.**

 

Please, he thinks desperately.  Let this work.  **Please, God, let him live.**

He spreads his arms, and he falls, his friend’s anguished cries echoing in his ears.

 

 

_John.  I am so, so sorry._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeep!! I'd say 'Don't worry', but I would either be lying or ruining the suspense! Stay tuned for the final chapter, to be posted this coming weekend. 
> 
> My tumblr: www.pipmer.tumblr.com. I'm almost at the milestone of 50 followers; if you'd like to help me reach that goal, I will have a giveaway once it's reached. Probably an offer to write a 221b ficlet for anyone who asks. Thanks for reading!


	7. The Blood is the Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. My internet connection is still wonky, and then the cats chewed the wiring on my modem! I'm posting this from a copy center. I still relish each and every comment, it's just difficult to respond to them at the moment. 
> 
> I hope that this conclusion is a satisfactory one, and that you have enjoyed the journey. I intend to write more in this 'verse, so if you have anything you'd like to see, please let me know!
> 
> Warnings: Inaccurate depictions of traumatic injuries and recovery rates.

 

 

 

He should not be aware of anything, but he is, and he is slightly disturbed by this fact.  He can’t determine what he's lying on.  His fingers twitch, but he still can't determine where he is or what's happening. It's like he's in a sensory deprivation tank; he could be floating on air, a cloud, or on nothing.  No sound reaches his ears, but he is aware of his thoughts, and for some reason that is alarming. He shouldn't be aware of anything at all; after all, he is dead...

 

Sherlock jerks and lets out a gasp; his eyes fly open and immediately the sensations rush in: the steady beep of a monitor; the smell of antiseptic; the texture of coarse sheets beneath his fingertips. His eyes swivel over to the chair next to his bed. As soon as he registers the fact that his brother is sitting there, he instinctively tries to jerk upright – only to find himself straining against the resistance of weight and pain.

 

Mycroft immediately leans forward and gently says, "Sherlock."

 

Panic sets in as he tries to force words out of his dry, unwilling throat. "M- Mycrof’... where is..."

 

"Easy," Mycroft chastises as he brushes Sherlock’s fringe out of his eyes – a gesture that, even in his compromised state, Sherlock registers as unexpectedly tender.  "We've been waiting for you to wake up.  It was thought you weren't going to for a while there; it's been very touch and go."

 

Something cool and wet pushes against his chapped lips, coaxing them open.  He instinctively obeys, and blessed relief floods his mouth.   The clogged, cottony feeling dissolves beneath the soothing liquid as the ice chip melts and coats his parched throat.  After a few moments the initial discomfort of his transport has been satisfied; he catches his brother’s eye and dips his head.  Mycroft nods and pulls back, dropping what remains of the ice into the bin at his feet.

 

Sherlock’s body may be weak, but his mind is as clear as ever, and there's only one thing on it right now. If Sherlock is alive, then John is still in danger of dying, and he cannot allow that to happen. He struggles as best he can against his brother and insists, "John... where is he? You need to - "

 

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice becomes insistent and concerned. "You can't sit up, you need to lie still. You've been in a coma for two weeks.  If you insist on trying to move, you'll tear out your stitches and the IV's will rip out.  Plus your broken bones will scream in protest, and I don’t care how high your tolerance for pain is, I can guarantee it will be far from pleasant."

 

Sherlock doesn’t hear anything past Mycroft’s second sentence.  It takes twenty seconds for the words to sink in, and when they do, he closes his eyes and lets the despair wash over him. 

 

 

He's been unconscious for a fortnight. It is no longer December 1.  If he is still alive, then John must be dead.  His plan didn't work. He has failed.

 

"As for John, he's currently in the visitor’s lounge waiting for my visit to be over. He hasn’t left your side for more than a few hours since you were brought out of surgery.  When he does sleep, he sleeps in here on –“

 

Sherlock's eyes fly open. "What did you say? John is here?"

 

"Well, of course he's here, where else would he be?"

 

Sherlock blinks. "But - how - "

 

Mycroft smiles, and it's both the saddest and the most tender expression Sherlock has ever seen on his face.  "I imagined you'd be a bit confused by that.  After all, John was supposed to die two weeks ago, isn’t that right?”

 

Sherlock's jaw drops.  "How could you.... possibly know that?"

 

Mycroft's smile fades.  He shuffles forward in his chair and starts undoing the cuffs on his right arm.  “I imagine this might be a bit… anticlimactic for you, given that James Moriarty revealed himself to you in a much more dramatic fashion, but there it is.”

 

For what to him is the second time in as many days, Sherlock watches as a flash of red peeks out from under a layer of cloth.  It’s not nearly as surprising now as it would have been three weeks ago.  His brain must be working at ten per cent efficiency maximum, because it takes an embarrassingly long time for the implications to sink in.  When they do, the twin feelings of rage and betrayal sweep over him, raw and visceral, pooling in his belly and swiftly rising to his chest as he suddenly finds it hard to breathe, and then moving upwards to suffuse his neck and face with the heat of humiliation.

 

 

Sherlock struggles to turn his head away from his brother.  His neck brace proves to be a bit of an obstacle, but he manages to achieve an adequate position.  He stares at the stark white walls.  He won’t be able to bear the sight of the hateful, smug expression that he’s sure is on Mycroft’s face.  Horrified, he feels stinging behind his eyes. He squeezes them shut, forcing reluctant tears out of the corners.

 

“You…” he rasps, disbelief clogging his throat up tight.  “You… _bastard._ Get the _hell_ out of my room.  I never want to see you or talk to you again, ever.  You are dead to me.”  His choice of words triggers an incongruous and unwanted bubble of hilarity in his chest, but he manages to quash it down to retain both his dignity and his indignation. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath of amusement.  Apparently, the same thought has occurred to him as well.  Sherlock inwardly tenses at the unpleasant reminder that, for all the differences between them and the palpable tension and resentment, they are very alike in a great many ways.  And now there’s another similarity to add to the tally.

 

_We have more in common than you like to believe._

 

“Sherlock, really.  This is hardly the time to resort to your typical childish petulance.  There’s some things I’d like to clear up, that I’ve waited a lifetime to explain – “

 

“I don’t want to hear it.  _Go. Away.”_

Mycroft sighs.  He’s made the performance of an exasperated and put-upon elder brother into an art form.   “ _Sherlock._ There are some things you need to be made aware of.  Put aside your petty grievances and think of Dr Watson…”

 

Sherlock jerks his head around to fix Mycroft with a scathing glare.  “Don’t you dare deflect, not this time.  _Damn_ you, Mycroft!  All this time… _my whole life_ you’ve been able to see the same things I do, and you never thought it necessary to inform me?  Especially after I came to you about Father?  You let them _section_ me, for God’s sake!  You let me think that I was alone, that I couldn’t confide in anybody because there was nobody who would ever believe me.  When all along, _you knew!_ You were my big brother, and… you _abandoned_ me. _”_

Mycroft leans forward in a conciliatory manner, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together as his index fingers indicate Sherlock’s supine form.  “ _Think,_ Sherlock,” he pleads.  “When did your ability to see the numbers appear?”

 

“You bloody well know that, Mycroft, I told you.  After I watched Carl Powers die – “  Sherlock’s words abruptly halt and his eyes widen in realisation.  Then they narrow in annoyance.  “Of course. Stupid, stupid!  You wouldn’t have had the ability yourself at that time.”

 

Mycroft nods.  “Just so.  I was twenty-five when it happened for me.  It wasn't the first time I had seen someone die, of course - just the first time since I had received my own numbers.  Remember the car accident I was in the summer before your first year at uni?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I was clinically dead for three minutes; I was revived during the trip to the hospital. The driver of the other car and I were taken to the same A&E she expired within minutes of our arrival, just long enough for me to observe her last breath.  _That’s_ when my ability announced itself – long after you tried to explain your own.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t lose his mutinous expression.  “It hardly matters.  You should have _trusted_ me.  You knew my instincts and my methods better than anyone.  I was no whimsical, foolish child, Mycroft.  You _failed_ me.”

 

Mycroft nodded in agreement. “I did.  Which is why I was too much of a coward to approach you about the truth after I myself had the same experience.  How was I to admit such a thing at that point, after I had treated you so cruelly after your own revelation?  I’ve been trying to make up for that ever since, Sherlock.  I know my efforts have been inadequate -“

 

Sherlock snorts.  “You don’t say.”

 

“- but I’ve always had your best interests at heart.  I’ve only ever sought to protect you, and not just from physical harm.  You’ve always felt things so _deeply,_ Sherlock.  I only wanted to ease the way for you.  Sometimes I’d try and coax a conversation in a direction that would give you a convenient opening to admit the truth, and perhaps lead to me regaining your trust. Then I could tell _you_ the truth, and you’d realise that you weren’t as alone as you had always assumed.”

 

_How did you know she was dead?_

_Even with her body lying on a slab right in front of you, you still weren’t convinced she was dead, not really.  So why are you now so ready to accept second-hand information, hmm?  You’re always so keen to flaunt your cleverness for all to see.  Tell me, Sherlock!_

_What happened, Sherlock – that was a quarter of a century ago.  I was so young, and I handled it very badly.  We’ve never talked about it since.  Perhaps we should do so now…._

Sherlock narrows his eyes.  “It’s called _manipulation,_ Mycroft.”

 

 

Mycroft has the grace to look contrite as he ducks his head for a brief moment.  “Perhaps, yes,” he murmurs softly.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes.  “None of this explains how both John and I can both be alive at this point in time.”

 

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Alright then,” he says, exasperation colouring his voice.  “You do realise, Sherlock, that you might not have been the only one willing to give their life for John’s?”

 

Sherlock tries to snap his head up, before the presence of his neck brace makes itself known in no uncertain terms.  He groans in frustration.  “What are you _talking_ about, Mycroft?”

 

Mycroft fixes him with a glare that radiates both sorrow and anger.  “I’m trying to tell you that it’s not always up to _you_ to ensure a desired result!  And even if it were, that you needn’t resort to the most dramatic, most _devastating_ solution.  I _warned_ you that caring was not an advantage, over and over again.  Your condition right now is the final proof of that.”

 

Sherlock snarls, “Apparently, it _was_ an advantage this time, because John is somehow still alive!  Which is the only thing that matters.”

 

“I think John would disagree.”

 

“That’s beside the point.”

 

 

Mycroft frowns.  “This is getting us nowhere.  Let’s get to the heart of the matter.  You’ve been unconscious for so long there’s no longer anything here from which you could deduce what has happened – which you probably couldn’t do anyway because the pain killers have dulled your senses.” 

 

Sherlock, of course, hears that as an insult.  He opens his mouth to retort, but Mycroft ploughs on over him.

 

“At any rate… After you fell, as I’m sure you know, you sustained grievous injuries.  It would have been a lot worse if your fall hadn’t been partially broken by a laundry lorry that so happened to park at a certain place at a certain time, but it was still bad enough.  Despite all indications that you were already gone, you were immediately airlifted here, to Royal London.  As you can imagine, there was a massive amount of internal haemorrhaging.  You were given a blood transfusion right on the helicopter.”

 

"But - I have the Bombay Blood group.  That’s the only kind of blood I can receive.  Surely they didn’t have that in stock?”

 

"No.  Lucky for you, then, that a certain ex-army doctor is a match."

 

The look on Sherlock's face is, he's sure, priceless.  "What - are you saying that John has the Bombay blood type as well?  But that's - virtually impossible.  The chances of that happening are too low to even consider.  Less than five people in a million have that blood type, and the occurrence among Caucasians is even less.”

 

"Impossible? No.  Very improbable?  Yes.  At any rate, long story short: you gave your life for John, and he returned the favour by giving his life’s blood to you.  He ended up giving more than the recommended maximum amount, because you needed that much and there was no other source available.  Potentially dangerous situation for him; he had to spend the first night here as a patient himself.”

 

Sherlock blinks.  “What, that’s it?  Just a blood transfusion, that’s all it took?”

 

Mycroft shakes his head.  “No.  There’s much more to it than that.  But I’ll leave that up to John to tell.”

 

Sherlock stares at him, trying to read the thoughts that must be percolating behind his unreadable eyes.  Mycroft gazes back, unblinking.  Realising that he won’t be getting any more out of his brother, he changes subjects.

 

“Another thing I don’t understand.  If you can see the numbers as well, why did you insist on keeping tabs on me so closely?  Surely if you could see my date, you’d know that I was meant to survive to a ripe old age.”

 

Mycroft’s mouth lifts in a small smile.  “Actually, no.  Believe it or not… to me, your forehead has always remained frustratingly blank.”

 

"Blank?  What… You couldn’t see my number?”

 

"That's exactly what I mean.” Mycroft steeples his fingers under his chin, a gesture that is an uncomfortable reminder of how similar the two of them are.  “I thought it might be because we were brothers, or because we shared the ability."

 

Sherlock shakes his head as he glances at Mycroft's forehead.  "No, that's not it.  I could see yours, and I could see Moriarty’s.”

 

Mycroft inclines his head.  "Yes, I did get there eventually.  I still have no explanation.  I’m sure there must _be_ one, but I haven’t figured it out yet.”

 

Sherlock thinks on it for a minute.  His eyes narrow as another thought occurs to him. “So how much _do_ you know about all this? How many _other_ people know about it?”

 

Mycroft shakes his head.  “I won’t get into it now.  I’m sure a certain – friend of yours is anxious to speak with you, as I’m sure you’d appreciate the proof of his continued well-being.”

 

Sherlock swallows past the lump in his throat and fights back the sudden threat of tears.  “Yes.  That would be much appreciated.”

 

 

****

 

 

The little patience remaining in Sherlock is tested when a team of doctors floods the room immediately after Mycroft’s exit.  It seems to take hours for them to finish their initial examinations before they’re assured he’s well and coherent enough to receive another visitor.  They’ll be dozens of more in-depth testing to be done later, but he refuses to cooperate further until John is allowed to see him.  Or in his mind, until _he_ can see John.

 

Once everyone leaves, Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath.  He’s untethered and totally out of his depth.  Not only is his body broken:  shattered ribs, one broken arm (radius and ulna), compound fracture of his right femur, fractured cervical vertebrae, plus other less critical injuries.  On top of all of that, his emotions are in utter turmoil.  He had believed that he was never going to see John again.  The last thing he remembers before awakening is the double-edged sword of regret and relief:  regret that he hadn’t found a way for both himself and John to survive, and relief that at least John no longer had to be tied to the vagaries of fate.  To learn that not only is Sherlock alive, but that John is as well – it is disorienting, to say the least.

 

John will be on his way soon, and Sherlock has no idea how he’s going to handle their encounter.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell John, or how much he needs to reveal in order for John to accept what has happened or the reasons for it.  Mycroft hadn’t given any indication that he had explained Sherlock’s situation to him, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or put-out by that.  

 

John’s reactions to things have never been predictable.  Sherlock has no idea what to be prepared for: a furious John, a concerned and solicitous John, or a deeply saddened John who has decided that he can no longer deal with all things Sherlock and has decided to cut himself out of his life.  He’s grown to trust John enough to believe that he’ll at least _try_ to comprehend the strangeness that is Sherlock’s unique… or at least very rare… condition, but beyond that he cannot predict John’s behaviour.  Perhaps he’ll be grateful for what Sherlock did for him.  Perhaps he’ll fall into a rage and be deeply hurt and offended that Sherlock hadn’t trusted him enough to share this part of himself…this deeply personal and vulnerable part of himself. 

 

Sherlock sighs.  He scrunches his eyes closed against the bright sunlight and rubs a hand against his forehead, willing the nascent ache to remain buried deep within. 

 

He fidgets and rolls his shoulder, trying to adjust the strap on the sling that is securing his left arm close to his chest.  His eye darts to his right arm lying at his side, and his attention is arrested.  His eyesight has gone wonky; his vision is blurry and he blinks, hoping to get rid of the scratchy sensation and the filmy image that graces his sight.  There’s something different about the red numbers on his wrist….oh.   _Oh._

 

A rustle at the doorway distracts him, and his eyes fly to the room’s entrance.  John hesitates as he catches Sherlock’s eye; he steadies himself with his hand braced against the jamb.    Sherlock doesn’t pay any attention to any other indications of how John is feeling, or what any of his behaviours mean.  All his attention is riveted on John’s forehead.  What will the effect on John’s death date be?  Will he have a new one now, like Tommy Winchester?  If so, how much time has Sherlock bought for him?  Would it have been worth it, even if the difference is only one more day? Ten? A thousand?  Ten thousand?

 

There are indeed new numbers on John’s forehead, and they read  **29-06-2037.**

Exactly half the time he would have gained if Sherlock had _stayed_ dead for him. 

It’s only then that he notices John’s demeanour.  It’s a combination of many things, and Sherlock can’t parse out the  
prevailing emotion.  John’s entire being radiates exhaustion and forestalled grief.  His shoulders slump forward and his face is ashen, eyes sunken from lack of sleep.  He is favouring his right leg, and the left hand hanging limply at his side is trembling.  His mouth is compressed into a tight thin line, yet his eyes are infuriatingly blank.  Sherlock can’t _read_ him.

 

Then, as quick as thought, John’s eyes glisten as they fill with moisture.  He lets them overflow without shame, little rivers flowing down his cheeks.  Sherlock aches to reach out and wipe them dry with his thumb. 

 

Sherlock clears his throat.

 

“John.”

 

A sob escapes John’s lips; he lunges forward and collapses on his knees by Sherlock’s bedside.  He reaches out and enfolds Sherlock’s free hand within his own shaking one.  His expression is pinched and pained as his eyes lock with his friend’s.  He places the palm of his other hand along Sherlock’s cheek.

 

“I should be absolutely furious with you for being such an astounding idiot,” he growls as his voice drops into a dangerously deep register.  The calloused thumb stroking his cheekbone belies both his words and the steely flint in his deep blue eyes.  His tone gentles as he says, “But that would make me the biggest hypocrite in the history of the planet.  Because I would have done the same thing in your place.  Without hesitation.”

 

Sherlock squeezes his hand.  “Exactly what is it that you think I did?”

 

John smiles.  “You’re a wanker, you know that?  Mycroft explained everything to me.”

 

Sherlock swallows.  “What, exactly, did he explain?”

 

John smooths the hair back from Sherlock’s head.  “Well, at first he tried to feed me some cock-and bull-story about how Moriarty outwitted you by setting a trap and forcing your hand by threatening me.  I didn’t buy it, of course.  I threatened Mycroft with great bodily harm if he didn’t tell me exactly what was going on.”

 

Sherlock blinks.  “What do you mean, you didn’t buy it?”

 

John snorts.  “Come on, Sherlock.  You’re a genius.  You would have seen what was coming from a mile away, and planned accordingly.  You would have figured out a way for both of us to come out unscathed.”  John’s eyes narrow.  “For some reason, it was necessary for you to actually die.”  His mouth thins into an unhappy line, and his grip on Sherlock’s hand tightens. 

 

“And you did.  You _did_ die, you died right there in front of me, you were gone for an entirely unacceptable amount of time…”  John closes his eyes in pain and rests his forehead on Sherlock’s.    

Sherlock closes his eyes as he absorbs his friend’s pain.  Eventually John’s breathing steadies, and Sherlock pulls back.  He lightly traces the path of the now-absent numbers on his friend’s forehead.  His voice wavers as he whispers reverently, “They’re the same.  They’re the same as mine.” 

 

John smiles tremulously.  “Mycroft told me about what you can see.  The numbers.”

 

Sherlock inhales sharply.  “And you believed him?”

 

John frowns.  “Shouldn’t I?”

 

“Well, yes; I’m just surprised that you’re - accepting such a ludicrous notion so easily.”

 

John shrugs. “It rather explains a lot of things, to be honest.”

 

John tells Sherlock what he has learned from Mycroft.  “He’s been doing research covertly ever since he began to see the numbers and realised that you could as well.  He assembled an entire team whose sole purpose is to study the phenomenon.  They’ve discovered that the numbers are determined by some as-yet unknown characteristic of a person’s red blood cells.  The very few people who know about them haven’t been able to isolate the precise component responsible.  It remains a mystery.  What’s more, the ability that you and Mycroft share… and Moriarty, apparently… is also tied to something in the blood.  Again, whatever that _something_ is hasn’t been identified.”

 

“That all sounds very scientific,” Sherlock muses.  “But that doesn’t explain how death dates can be exchanged through willing sacrifice. That smacks of something either supernatural or magical.”

 

John nods in agreement.  “There’s still a lot to be uncovered yet.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows.  “How does the blood transfusion you gave me fit into all this?”

 

An unreadable expression crosses John’s face, and Sherlock has no idea how to interpret it.  There’s a sinking feeling of dread in his chest as he realises he’s about to find out what it means, and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it. 

 

“Yes.  That.”  John takes a deep breath, clearly trying to ground himself before speaking further. 

 

“When you – when you died, the result you had been striving for was achieved.  Our numbers were exchanged.  You took on my death date, and I took on yours.  Somehow that act created changes in me at the cellular level, if not the molecular.  But you didn’t just pass on your death date.  You also passed on – “

 

“My ability.  You gained my foresight as well.”  Sherlock looks at him in awe.  “You can see what I see.  After all, you _did_ have a near-death experience when you were shot in Afghanistan, and you’ve certainly witnessed people dying since then.”  His face crumples in apology.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t anticipate that.”

 

“Of course you didn’t.  But that doesn’t matter.  Because you _also_ passed on an ability that you weren’t aware of, one that comes hand in hand with the other – that of transferring life to another person via your blood.  So when my blood was transfused into you –“

 

“You gave back part of the life that I gave you when I died.  Which is why you now have only twenty-five more years left instead of the fifty I was _meant_ to give you.” Sherlock frowns.  “That was a foolish thing to do, John.  I wanted you to have all those years; you deserve to live a long, full life.  Why would you give that up?”

 

John shakes his head.  “I wasn’t supposed to live beyond December 1, 2012, Sherlock; any time I have beyond that is an unexpected gift.”  He runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair, tender and loving.  “Besides, I’d rather live twenty-five years _with_ you than fifty without.  I’m sure you can understand that sentiment, yeah?”

 

Sherlock can’t lie.  “Yes, of course.”  He grabs John’s hand and brings it up to his lips, lightly kissing the knuckles.  “And now we share the same date.  I can live with that.”

 

“Sherlock.  There are no words for… there’s nothing I can say or do to properly express my gratitude.  Not for the first time, I owe you my life.  Thank you.”

A slight blush creeps up Sherlock’s neck onto his face.  “It was … the logical choice to make.”

 

“Sherlock.  Logic had nothing to do with it, you great git.  You can’t admit to sentiment even now, can you?”  John leans in and places a lingering kiss on his lips.  He pulls back and smiles fondly.  “Explain to me how that was in the least a rational decision.”

 

Sherlock clears his throat and turns even more pink.  “I… It made sense.  Because if you had died, I would have stopped living too, essentially.  This way… this way only one life would have ended.  As I said, logical.”

 

John’s mouth quirks up in a small smile.  “Has anyone told you how much of a romantic you are?”

 

Sherlock makes a face.  “ _Really,_ John.”

 

John’s smile fades, and his expression clouds.  “But.”

 

Misgiving swells through Sherlock’s chest, but he tries to make light of it.  He rolls his eyes.  “Honestly, John, why must you always _complicate_ things?  I saved your life, you saved mine back.  What more is there to _say?”_

John frowns.  “A great deal, apparently.  But not all of it today.”  He squeezes Sherlock’s hand.  “It’s just that…. Sherlock.  I do understand, and I did say that I would have done the same, but…. Did you even stop to consider what the repercussions would have been for _me?_ Don’t you realise that being without you would be just as devastating for me as the alternative would be for you?  That’s why, even if I had known beforehand what the consequences would be, I still would have given you my blood.  If it had only been up to you –“

 

John swallows, and Sherlock wants to wipe the look of anguish off his face.

 

“If it had only been up to you, you’d be dead right now, and I would be lost.  It took _both_ of us to fix this, Sherlock.  It’s not the ideal result, but it’s a perfectly acceptable compromise.  And I know what you’re going to say; that there was no way we could have planned for things to play out this way, that there were too many variables and random events involved.  And that would be true.  Just – you were never alone in this, Sherlock.  And you’re not alone now.  You’ll never be alone again.  Don’t forget that, okay?”

 

Warmth and joy and _love_ bloom in Sherlock’s chest, because _this._ This is what he has been searching for his entire life.   Someone who understands him, who _believes_ in him, who will stand with him through any circumstance that life throws their way.  They can endure _anything,_ even death, if they face it together.

 

“I won’t forget.  I promise.”

 

“See that you don’t.  So… now that _both_ of us can see these… numbers… what are the ramifications for solving cases?”

 

Sherlock grins.  He’s not sure anybody has ever experienced the intense happiness that he is in this moment.  If they have, surely they don’t exist anymore.  They must have expired from not being able to contain it all, from having their chests burst open because there’s no way these feelings can be contained within such a small space for any length of time.

 

His head buzzes with all the unanswered questions.  How will this mutual knowledge change the way the two of them conduct investigations?  Will the fact that there’s a way death dates can be altered throw a wrench into what types of cases he accepts and the effort he expends towards solving them?

 

He doesn’t know the answers – _yet –_ but he no longer has to figure these things out on his own.  John will help him.  They may limp forward at first, barely making progress, but they’ll get there eventually.  It’s only a matter of time, and they both have equal amounts of that.  Sherlock has months of recovery ahead of him, but after that….. After that, a new journey begins.

 

Sherlock can hardly wait.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

The small granite gravestone was lonely and stark in the back of the isolated graveyard.   The slight, pretty red-head stepped over the fallen twigs and scattered leaves as she made her way closer.  It was such an obscure resting place for such a brave, selfless heroine.  She took a shuddering breath as she came to a stop in front of the simple memorial.  Simple, and entirely inadequate. 

 

 

She knelt in the dirt, unmindful of her pristine white trousers.  She reached forth a hand and traced the name reverently with her fingertip.

 

 

**IRENE ADLER**

 

 

When she had found herself kneeling in the sand after being captured by Moriarty's men masquerading as insurgents, her first thought had been of Sherlock Holmes.  She had been in his presence for only a brief amount of time, but it had been long enough to become quite enamoured of him, much to her partner’s dismay and to her own confusion.  Her captors had allowed her one message, and she had chosen him with a succinct and bittersweet "Good-bye, Mr Holmes."  Even though she knew she meant less than nothing to him, she half expected him to swoop in and rescue her, a knight in shining armour to her damsel in distress.  What actually happened, she never would have expected in a million years.

 

 

Her mate had swept in like an avenging angel instead.  She had brought with her two of their 'friends', men who owed Irene a favour and whose proclivities she knew how to indulge, and together they had swept her to safety.  But it had come at the cost of her saviour’s life.  She had put herself between her love and the blade of a sword, and that sword had extinguished the bright flame that had so often been taken for granted.

 

 

Once everyone else had reached safety, she convinced these men - the same ones who had helped fake a death before - to do a repeat performance.  She had fooled both Holmes boys once, she was sure she could do it again.  And then, she would have truly beaten both of them.  She had no intention of resurrecting herself this time, for she had nothing worth going back for.

 

 

The two of them had been entertaining the notion of making a fresh start in America; perhaps that's where she would go.  New Jersey sounded like a fine place to blend in and disappear.

 

 

The letters on the stone blurred; she touched her cheeks and found them wet.  The ultimate sacrifice had been made for her, so that she could live.  A life for a life.  A cruel yet indifferent law of the universe, with no agenda but inevitability.  She would make sure that sacrifice was not in vain.

 

 

"Thank you, my love," Irene whispered, throat thick with emotion.  "May you rest in peace."  She took a shuddering breath and stood up.  She made a cursory check of her handbag.  Her passport now bore the name of Kate Norton, as did all other forms of her identification.  Irene Adler was, for all intents and purposes, dead.  She had a new identity now, and a new life to live.

 

 

She turned her back on the lonely plot.  Before she walked away, she opened her phone and considered the contact list.  She swept her thumb across the screen until the S’s appeared.  She hesitated for two seconds over one name before resolutely pressing ‘delete’.

 

 

Head held high, she walked away from the ashes of her old life and made her way towards the embers of a new dawn. 

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you have it: Sherlock returns from the dead, quite literally. Without the unnecessarily protracted hiatus.
> 
> The epilogue was entirely prettybirdy979's idea. I was a bit anxious about Irene's role. When I initially wrote her 'death', I feared that perhaps people would see it as an implication that she couldn't survive without the big, strong man swooping in to save her. So Birdy suggested what I ended up including here.
> 
> The Bombay Blood group is an actual thing. You can find the wikipedia article [here.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hh_antigen_system)
> 
> As for Molly's role? I thought I'd leave that implied rather than stated outright in the story itself. For those who would like to know, my reasoning is that Molly would have provided a safe haven away from both the police and Moriarty, at least until the appointed time. I also envisioned that she was the one who arranged for the phone call to John about Mrs Hudson.

**Author's Note:**

> There's an additional veritable treasure trove of folks who were willing to look over parts of this story and give their valuable input: kestrel337, thirtypercent, interrosand, aria, lifeonmars, thisprettywren, hiddenlacuna, and aeron_lanart for the invaluable medical information. I couldn't have done it without each and every one of you. So many of the scenes that ended up in this story were a result of suggestions and guidance provided for me by these immensely supportive people. Thank you so, so much.
> 
>  
> 
> There are two lovely pieces of art that were inspired by this story. The first is by Sadyna, and can be found [here](http://sadynax.tumblr.com/post/65038909159/john-sherlock-sleeping-on-the-sofa-commission). It can also be found at the end of Chapter 3. The second is by Oochami, and you can find her work [here](http://oochami.tumblr.com/post/54978807461/commission-for-prettybirdy979-john-sitting-down). That one is also found at the end of Chapter 5. I'm so very honoured to be allowed to include them in my story. 
> 
>  
> 
> Again, there are more stories coming in this 'verse, so if there's anything you'd like to see, please let me know. My tumblr is www.pipmer.tumblr.com.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I'm gonna live live live until I die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111443) by [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979)




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